


Roses and Buttercups

by Eristastic



Series: Under(fairy)tales [1]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-14 18:48:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5754304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eristastic/pseuds/Eristastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As such things generally go, Frisk gets lost in a deep, dark forest and finds an almost-abandoned castle complete with beast and...imprisoned...prince(ss)? </p><p> </p><p>[Obligatory Chara/Asriel Beauty and the Beast AU]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Once Upon a Time

**Author's Note:**

> So someone already fulfilled [my prompt](http://eristastic.tumblr.com/post/137489012087/eristastic-come-to-think-of-it-one-of-my), but I was already 3K in as well when I noticed, so let's just have two!
> 
> I've set this as multi-chapter but I'm still not sure whether I'll continue or not. We'll see, I guess
> 
> (Edit: I've added an epilogue/extra story as chapter 6: that's where the Friskid is, and it sort-of-but-not-really stands alone from the main story. More details in the description of chapter 6, anyway)
> 
> 'Cover page' can be found [here](http://eristastic.tumblr.com/post/144264689052/second-set-of-cover-pages-for-my-fics-roses-and).

Frisk really doesn’t like the dark. They’ve spent a lot of their childhood protesting that they aren’t scared, they absolutely aren’t, so shutting them up in a closet for three hours isn’t going to affect them at _all_ , but they’re more mature now. Alone, too. So they can admit they’re scared.

The annoying thing is that they really should have expected this. You don’t finally take the leap, run away from home to a giant, never-ending forest and expect it to be a walk in the park. Because it’s not. It’s a walk in the dark, scary forest and they’re starting to think they might have made a mistake.

It’s a full moon overhead (they know that because they saw it when they ran from the village), but they can’t see it anymore. There are faint glints in puddles that they only notice when they’ve already stepped in them, and some milky, greyish light filtering through the thick canopy of leaves above, but it’s only just enough for them to be able to walk without bumping into a tree every five steps. So they take it slow. Slowly and surely, doing their breathing exercises because there’s no one here to make fun of them for it, they reach out to feel for tree trunks with curled up fists. As if fists would be any less likely to touch spiders or creepy-crawlies. But they keep moving forwards, one step at a time.

The thing is, there’s a reason nobody comes to this particular forest. Besides the obvious hostility. Back in Frisk’s village (two hour’s walk back, they remind themself: too far away to go back now) everyone had known the rumours, the stories, the old wives’ tales. That somewhere, deep in this forest, as if the whole thing wasn’t appallingly deep already, there lies a castle. And, as such things generally work, there happens to be a terrifying beast living there, waiting to kill anyone who comes close.

But those are just stories.

And, stuck between a ferocious beast and their aunt and uncle, Frisk knows who they’d prefer to see at the end of this journey.

So they keep walking.

There’s more to the story than just that, though. A long time ago, the castle was full of light and happiness. The king and queen lived there, sometimes, as their holiday home before that whole business with treaties and switches in power that had happened long before Frisk had been born. And, after the power switch, they’d gone to live there with their heir. Some say the heir was a prince, some say a princess, and most tend to go with the latter because it sounds so much better in stories: the beast came and killed the king and queen, imprisoned the princess and holds her captive to this day.

But those are just stories: no one’s really allowed to talk about the monarchy anymore, so Frisk doesn’t know the details.

They wonder if the princess is still alive, what she’s doing, if she’s okay. If she needs a hero to go and save her, maybe. That doesn’t sound too bad. Frisk wouldn’t mind trying that out. But then they remind themself that those are all just stories, and the journey feels a little less appealing. They keep walking, though. There’s got to be something on the other side of the forest.

 

An hour later (or two, or three: Frisk doesn’t have any idea), they’re starting to wonder if there even is another side to the forest. They know people say it stretches the entire length of the country, but they’d sort of assumed that was a rumour too. There are lots of rumours, and it’s not like their aunt and uncle will ever tell them anything worthwhile.

It’s raining now, too: fat, heavy drops coming down through the canopy and soaking through Frisk’s clothes and hair and probably their rucksack too. The ground’s turned to mud and they wish they’d worn longer trouser or higher socks because mud slaps against the back of their calves with every step, and it feels so unpleasant. Every little slap makes them cringe: it feels like things are crawling up their legs. But they keep walking, because at this point there’s nothing else they can do.

They’re climbing up a slope of sodden leaves when they slip. They’re going so carefully too, but it’s like a slope opens up underneath their right foot and though they flail around, desperately trying to grab hold of a branch or something to stop their fall, all they can get is slimy leaves and they tumble down, slipping and sliding and holding their head protectively. Leaves and mud are getting everywhere and they keep bashing into rocks, forcing weak whimpers from their mouth. They purse their lips and screw their eyes shut and try to reach out for purchase on something, _anything_ , but there’s nothing.

The fall ends after far too long, and they can’t even open their eyes. Everywhere feels bruised, everywhere hurts, and the rain’s still pouring down on them.

“H-Hey, are you okay?”

They think they can hear a voice, but they feel too woozy to know for sure.

“Hold on, okay? Just…just hold on, I’ll get you somewhere safe!”

Something warm wraps around them, but they can’t even tell if it’s arms or the drowsiness of sleep. They black out before they can tell.

 

This bed is so much softer than anything they’ve ever known. Their whole body aches, and they think there’s a special kind of pain coming from their ankle when they move it, but the bed is soft and the pillows are like a hug around their head. They don’t really want to open their eyes, just in case it’s all a dream.

Ten minutes or so later, they feel a little more human so they open their eyes a crack. There’s light streaming through wall-sized windows on the other side of the room. One of them looks like it’s made of stained glass, with patterns of roses. They open their eyes a little wider and sit up.

The room is huge, for starters. It’s got to be the size of the entire ground floor in their aunt and uncle’s house, but apart from the bed, all the other furniture is covered with dusty sheets. There’s a carpet on the floor, though, they find out when they get out of bed. They also find out that that was a very big mistake and they shouldn’t be putting weight on their ankle if they know what’s good for them. And they’re here, not back ‘home’, so clearly they do.

Unsteadily, they hobble over to the giant mirror by the wardrobe-shaped dust sheet. The damage isn’t too bad, they think. Someone’s brushed their hair and cleaned them a bit, though they’re still wearing the same clothes as the night before. There are some bruises and scrapes that weren’t there before, but all in all they don’t look too bad. Still kind of alternately lanky and chubby depending on what part you’re looking at (puberty isn’t kind), but not too bad. They strike a pose to make themself feel better. It works, sort of.

Looking around the room, they notice their rucksack’s been put on a chair near the bed, along with a small pile of what look to be clothes. They hobble over there to have a look, figuring that free clothes should not be snooted at.

Said clothes turn out be somewhat more than what Frisk was bargaining on. They’d have been fine with just a shirt and trousers, but this shirt looks like it’s made out of actual silk, the trousers are so neatly ironed they look like folded paper, and there are braces and a jacket and a ribbon (probably for the shirt collar?) as well. And shoes and socks, looking underneath the chair. Oh, and new underwear too, of varying types, presumably for them to choose. Surprisingly considerate.

With a lot of care, they manage to get dressed. The clothes are a bit tight, and the shoes definitely don’t fit, but overall not too bad. They put their own shoes on and go to the mirror again. Definitely not too bad. Rich people have the right idea about fashion, clearly.

That does, of course, leave the slight problem of how they got here and whose house they’re in, though. But it’s a new day, the sun is shining, they think they can hear birds singing outside, and things aren’t so bad. So they open the door and walk outside.

The ‘house’ is apparently a lot larger than they thought, because their room turns out to open onto a whole row of rooms on a very large overhang supported by pillars. In the middle of the square (which has four floors, because really, what self-respecting house doesn’t have four floors and pillars and rows of rooms the length of a street) there’s a garden. Frisk moves to hang over the balcony to get a closer look. The flower beds (all yellow, for some reason) look well-looked after, and there’s a working fountain in the middle. The whole thing’s starting to feel a little unbelievable, but Frisk presses on.

It’s only after they’ve tried all the rooms (mostly locked, the rest filled with dust sheets) on all the floors that they actually go into the garden and see that there’s a way out of the square. Crossing mosaic-tiled paving stones, they go through the rose-lattice gate and walk into a totally new courtyard.

It’s at this point that Frisk realises this might actually be a castle.

They try not to think too hard about the dark stains on some of the paving stones, or the deep gashes on the doors of the third entrance to the courtyard (which presumable leads outside). They’re locked anyway, so that’s not an option.

Going through giant wooden double doors into an entrance hall filled with unlit chandeliers and unnecessarily ornate staircases, they begin to worry, just a little. Considering that they now seem to be in a fairytale castle, there’s every chance that the stories were actually right, that there is a beast and a princess and a lot of dead travellers. They figure it can’t be that unrealistic, compared to what they’ve already experienced. And there are stains here too, albeit fewer. More gashes, though. Especially on some of the paintings.

A lot more exploring (but less handle-happy door opening) later, they manage to get to the top of the castle and onto a balcony in a room even larger than the one they were in. The view is, quite frankly, utterly terrifying. The forest is like a cloud of green and brown, spreading all the way to the horizons, with just a thin gate standing between it and the perimeters of the castle grounds. Frisk backs away from the balcony, feeling a little less adventurous. It’s beautiful too, they know that, but they also know the panic of being locked in.

It’s definitely going to be okay, though! (probably) The people who live here are really nice to take care of them so well, so they won’t need an escape or anything. They’re certain.

They walk back inside, a little hurriedly, thoughts of beasts on their mind.

 

It takes a lot of nerve to walk up to the rooms that have Very Important written all over them. It’s probably the giant doors: those tend to make anything look important. But it’s got to be past noon and Frisk still hasn’t seen anyone, so they figure they’re just going to have to be brave.

It takes a lot of tries to get the doors open, and each try feels a little harder than the last, but they do eventually manage it. The room inside is bright and filled with windows, two enormous thrones up at one end. They walk inside, hands trembling until they clutch them at their sides firmly. They’re not scared.

They still feel their heart practically leap out of their mouth and onto the floor when a voice calls out from behind them, though.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Shivering, Frisk turns to see a human (not that they were expecting anything else, like…like a beast or something…). The human looks just as freaked out as they feel, so that’s a comfort.

“I…I was just…looking around,” they say weakly.

“Well _don’t_!” They’re angry. They also don’t look anything like a princess, but Frisk’s okay with that: no princess logically means no beast, right? Right. So it’s okay that this new person is dressed up in clothes pretty similar to the ones Frisk’s wearing, if better-fitting, with hair pulled back into a straight ponytail and eyes that could probably burn through glass if directed properly. They’ve got a distinctly unhealthy, gaunt face and they look a few years older than Frisk, maybe seventeen? They don’t really know, though. They just know that the person’s very, very angry.

“You weren’t supposed to come here,” they say, guardedly, and Frisk reassesses the situation.  Perhaps this is this person who saved them the night before, and they’re just angry that Frisk went running off on their own. That makes sense! No one really wants a stranger rootling through their home, right?

“Sorry,” they say, trying to look apologetic. “I didn’t mean to snoop, I was just…well, no one was coming, so…”

The person seems to be going through several stages of frustration at an accelerated rate, and eventually they settle on resignation. Keeping their eyes firmly on the ground, they gesture for Frisk to come with them. They hurry to follow, not assuming for a second that this definitely-not-a-princess will wait for them if they’re slow. They don’t even take the time to look at the royal portraits opposite the thrones. They’re covered in curtains, anyway.

Frisk hurries after the not-princess (who has significantly longer legs and is making unfair use of them) as they walk back through the castle corridors. The whole place looks the same to Frisk, but clearly this person knows what they’re doing. They’ve stuffed their hands in their pockets and seem to be concentrating pretty hard on not letting Frisk catch up with them, anyway. Though that isn’t exactly hard when Frisk only has one leg that works properly.

“U-um…” Frisk calls out as they get to the main staircase. “Do you have a name?” They can’t keep calling them the not-princess: it’s getting weird.

The not-princess (see? Weird) turns and glares at them for a second before their gaze finds its home on the floor again. They hunch up their shoulders, the very picture of discomfort. “I’m Chara.”

“Oh, okay! My name’s Frisk!”

“Didn’t even ask,” Chara mutters, but it doesn’t sound unkind. Well, the words sound unkind. Their voice just sounds uncomfortable. They start walking down the stairs and Frisk follows them.

The problem is that limping down stairs when you’re also trying to catch up with someone who happens to be very fast is…not ideal, to say the least. Chara waits, though. They don’t help, but they wait, their back to Frisk, tracing shapes on the ground with their foot as if they’d totally chosen to wait there for a good two minutes. And then the two of them are on their way again.

Frisk thinks about asking about the gashes around the courtyard, but decides it’d probably be best not to. Just in the interest of keeping on Chara’s ‘good’ side (where ‘good’ apparently means the side where they’ll actually talk to you), that’s all. Not because they don’t want to know or anything.

But, after that whole song and dance, Chara takes them back to the room they woke up in originally. They wait for Frisk to walk inside, then (holding the door handle like a threat), they look away as if the door frame is the most interesting thing in the world.

“Just stay in here. You can walk around a bit if you like, what do I care, but actually rest that damned foot of yours or it’s never going to heal. Food’ll get brought to you. You can just leave when you’re healed up.”

They slam the door behind them, leaving Frisk standing in the middle of the room, alone. They decide not to ask where they’re supposed to go once their ankle’s better, and, since they definitely don’t want to ask _when_ food’s getting brought to them, they eat some of the food in their rucksack, have some water from the pitcher waiting on a dresser, and figure it’d be a good time for a nap.

 

When they wake up this time, it’s night. The moon’s shining through the stained glass roses, spreading red and pink all over the floor. And then Frisk realises why they woke up.

There’s roaring, somewhere. And what sounds like screaming. Against all self-preservation, they hop out of bed, remember their ankle and regret it, then (cringing all the while) slip their shoes on and go to investigate, like a Brave and Adventurous Person. There’s a tray of some food they’ve never seen before – thin ribbons of dough-like stuff covered in a red sauce and what looks like a hefty slice of pie – but they’ll have time to eat that later, they suppose. Right now they’ve got an adventure to be on. Because they’re not scared at all.

It’s slow progress, but they can hear the commotion coming from the courtyard so they head steadily and surely down the stairs, across the garden and its lovingly-tended beds of golden flowers. They stop at the side of the gate, peeking their head round and they do their best to look inconspicuous. They’re in the shadows, but they’re not sure if that’s enough. Enough for what, they’re not sure either.

The doors leading from the courtyard outside have been broken down, it looks like, and there’s a man and woman with swords. They don’t look like soldiers, or guards, or anything like that: they just look like people who picked up swords and thought that that meant they could use them. But Frisk doesn’t pay too much attention to them. Their eyes, the couple’s eyes too, are glued to the beast in the middle of the courtyard.

It stands twice as tall as Frisk, at least, and it looks as if it could fell both intruders with a single blow of its arm. It looks something like a goat, with long ears, fur sparkling white in the moonlight, and the same shape of head, but its horns are far bigger than any goat’s (even proportionally) and there are fangs in its snarling jaws. It takes Frisk a while to realise that it’s speaking.

“Leave! I won’t tell you again!” it, (or he, Frisk supposes) bellows at the couple, but they seem to have lost their fear now. Brandishing swords like sticks, they walk towards the beast as one.

The beast steps back. Frisk can’t believe it: isn’t he powerful? Isn’t he supposed to be a bloodthirsty monster? But then…he’s backing away, hackles raised and fangs bared, but…defensive. He’s on defence and the couple don’t care.

Frisk can’t understand this. What’s going on? Are they supposed to be rooting for the beast or the humans? But that’s a stupid question, isn’t it? They could never side with the humans, not when the couple’s leering like that, not when they’re revelling in their own borrowed power.

Not when they lash out and cut the beast along his collar, taunting him as blood drips down his robes slowly.

Frisk knows they need to do something. They have no weapon, no power, a sprained ankle, but none of that matters. Stepping through the gate, they call out, “H-hey!”

But their voice is drowned out by Chara’s.

“What,” they snarl, walking with slow, deliberate steps out of the castle, “the actual _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?”

They look like they’ve just been woken up, with their hair a mess and their face even gaunter than before, deep shadows around their eyes. But there’s a knife in their hands, and it looks like it belongs there.

The couple stop in their tracks and the beast looks less trapped. If anything, he looks like he could melt with relief.

“Chara!”

They go over to him and reach to touch the cut, staring at the blood on their fingers, looking up into his eyes. And then they scowl at the man and woman in front of them. Even though they’re so much smaller, even though they haven’t raised their knife yet, there’s something about them that makes the couple stand back.

“W-who the fuck are you?” the woman says, holding her sword out with both hands, as if that could possibly make her hold any steadier. “They said there was just some freak living here alone!”

“Well, looks like there are two freaks. Who’d have guessed.” Their frown deepens. “Get out.”

The couple are both running out of steam, but they clearly can’t read the atmosphere because they round on Chara now.

“Yeah?” the man laughs. “How about you give us the treasure first?”

“How about you get the fuck out of my sight.” It’s not a question, even a hypothetical one. It sounds more like a final warning.

The couple know it, too, and they attack. The woman goes for the beast, the man for Chara, and because of that, the man dies first, his throat slit open in a single movement. There’s a knife through the woman’s chest before she can even reach the beast. And then there are just two bodies on the ground, a growing pool of blood, and Chara and the beast standing above them.

It feels like a story, like make-believe, and Frisk can’t feel anything for the couple who were just killed. There are excuses of self-defence, of justified murder, but none of them matter because Frisk isn’t looking for excuses: they can’t even take their eyes off the pair standing together, hand in hand in the courtyard.

With Chara spattered with blood, their expression impassive as they lean into the furry shoulder next to them, it’s difficult to call the other person the beast. He looks like he’s tearing up. There’s no way Frisk could be scared of him. But as for Chara…Chara says something Frisk can’t make out, grinning, and the ‘beast’ shakes his head vigorously, moving them further away from the bodies with a hand on Chara’s back. Frisk doesn’t think they could be scared of them, either.

The two of them are so different: in size, in expression, in countenance, in atmosphere (Chara covered in blood and practically dripping with latent anger, him still sparkling white and worried), but they’re looking at each other like they’re equals.

And when Chara smiles, it looks softer than they have any right to be.


	2. History Lessons for the Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Otherwise known as the obligatory exposition chapter. At least there's a lot of Asriel. 
> 
> (Just so you know, I'm planning about 5 chapters with this one)

“Kid, get over here!”

Frisk straightens up in shock. The scene in front of them opens up, spreading its arms to them and it feels less like a stage, less like a storybook. They walk over sheepishly to where Chara called them and try not to look at the corpses.

Chara still won’t look them in the eye, but that’s okay, because their companion is doing more than enough looking by himself. He looks overjoyed but also vaguely worried.

“You’re up! I mean, Chara told me you’d been up before, but when I went to see you, you were still asleep so I just left. But now you’re up! Are you okay? I don’t think you should be walking on that ankle so soon, you know…”

Chara clicks their tongue. “They were walking around all morning, what does it matter?”

“Well, that was wrong too! Oh, but I don’t mean it was your fault,” he switches his tone quickly, leaning down a bit to smile at Frisk better. They decide they like him.

“Anyway!” he says. “I’m Asriel! It’s nice to meet you.”

His smile’s kind of infectious (although Chara seems immune) so Frisk smiles back, as if they haven’t just witnessed two murders. It doesn’t even feel like they have.

“I’m Frisk! Thanks for saving me yesterday.”

“You figured out it was me? Well, I guess you would, huh…” he looks at Chara wryly and gets hit on the ear for his troubles. “But it’s late: we should go back to bed. Do you want to come with? To the main building, I mean. We probably should have put you in there to start with, but stuff happened and it got all complicated, and-”

“Asriel, for the love of god, stop babbling,” Chara cuts in. They don’t try to move his hand from their back, though.

“Well, anyway! If…if you’re not too scared, I mean, do you want to? I’ll explain everything tomorrow, promise!”

Frisk doesn’t even hesitate to nod happily and take his hand. They walk into the castle together.

 

Chara’s gone the next morning: not so much disappeared as actively not wanting to be found, but Asriel says that’s something they do, sometimes, so Frisk doesn’t worry about it. Instead, they sit on one of the stools in the kitchen (an arching, tiled room filled with warmth) and eat the food Asriel brings them. It’s saucer-wide, sunny eggs on chewy-but-edible bread that Asriel apologises for, sprinkled with thick grains of salt. It’s pretty much the best thing ever, after a night spent in an even bigger and fluffier bed than before, in the room right next to Chara and Asriel’s. Frisk heard the dull sound of their voices through the wall until it lulled them to sleep, and there was something comforting in that.

Far more comforting than a lone room in a mansion of dust sheets, anyway.

“Do you want to come up to the library?” Asriel asks after they’re done. In answer, Frisk hops off the stool and takes his hand (still slightly damp from doing the washing up), beaming.

Asriel smiles back, his whole face lighting up like it was built for it.

“Before I explain things my side,” he says as they walk up the stairs, “do you…do you want to talk about why you’re here?”

“Ran away,” Frisk says simply, keeping their eyes on the little black shoes they’re wearing (that were probably Chara’s once, now they think about it).

“Do you want to go back? We could help, if you just got lost and regret it or something.”

“Nah.” Better not talk about it.

“Oh, okay! That’s fine too.” He leads them down a side corridor lined with stained-glass windows, spreading pink and yellow shadows over the glossy floorboards. “Um, can I ask you something, though? Just to check. Are you…like Chara? I mean, you’re not a girl or a boy, right?”

Just nodding or shaking their head would have got confusing, so they say, “That’s right!” cheerfully.

“Neat! I mean, I thought for a long time that all humans were like that because I’ve never actually met any apart from Chara and you, not really _met_. But I told Chara that and they laughed at me, so I’ve never been all that sure. Ah, here we are!”

The library is, like all the other rooms, very, very big. Frisk thinks it’s probably about five times their height, but they’re not very tall or good at estimating that sort of thing. There are definitely a lot of books, though. It’s not as if Frisk’s never seen a book in their life, but they can count all the times they have on their fingers. And they have nowhere near enough fingers to count all of these.

It all seems a bit unnecessary, actually: how many different things can there possibly be to write about?

It’s pretty, though: there are even more giant windows with bright light streaming through them, and there’s gold lining the deep, rich brown of the wooden bookcases. There are soft chairs and shiny desks in the middle of the room that Frisk thinks would be excellent places to nap.

“It’s nice, right?” Asriel looks proud. His chest is all puffed up under the blue robes, and his grip’s just a little tighter on Frisk’s hand. “Mum used to collect as many books as she could, and Dad collected some specialist ones too, so this place sort of just filled up. That came in handy when they had to teach me and Chara how to read, of course.”

Frisk nods attentively, waiting for his bout of nostalgia to fade. It takes longer than they imagined, so they tug on his hand a little and walk over to the chairs, sit down and watch him with an expectant smile.

He gets the message. “I guess you want to know what’s going on around here, right?”

Frisk nods enthusiastically, hands on their knees and their back very straight. Something outside seems to be preoccupying Asriel, so they follow his gaze and sit up a little higher, trying to see. They think Chara might be in the garden of the square of unused rooms across the courtyard, which would explain it, but they’re too short to see properly. They can see the courtyard’s empty of bodies, though.

“Alright then!” Dragging his eyes away, Asriel sits down too. “Um, I guess I’ll start from the very beginning? So after the power switch, my parents…um. Do you know what the power switch was?”

“Not really,” Frisk admits. Their voice sounds a little croaky to them, but that’s what they get for not speaking unless they have to.

“The whole period of unrest? The treaties of ’63 and ’72?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Not at all?” He looks a bit dumfounded.

Frisk shakes their head again. There’s a small, bitter feeling of shame that they know too well, but they suppress it. Asriel seems nice. He wouldn’t make fun of them for this.

“Oh gosh,” he says. “This really is going to turn into a history lesson! I didn’t think they’d have bothered with so much censorship…”

“I do come from a pretty small village, though. We might just not have been told anything,” Frisk suggests.

“That’s true: maybe that’s it! Although Chara was kind of clueless when they came here too…well. That’s something for other people to worry about!” He laughs in a nervous sort of way. “Well, anyway! Settle back, I guess, because this might get long.”

Obediently, Frisk shuffles back in their chair.

“So, a long time ago, this country had a king. Dad always said I shouldn’t judge him based on his final actions and everything, but Mum made it pretty clear that she didn’t think he was a good person, so…he wasn’t really very good. At all. He didn’t have any heirs and just before he died, he left the succession to the royal family of the neighbouring country. Which happened to be my parents’: the ‘country’ all the monsters got separated into. But that’s a different story, so don’t worry if you don’t know about that one.

“Anyway, my parents came to take over, but people weren’t exactly happy. Or even content, really. If anything, they were extremely unhappy, and what with the general hatred towards the dead king for his selfish ruling, and general hatred towards monsters, well…my parents didn’t have the greatest time. Not even a year in, there was a pretty clear split between monarchists and the people who called themselves revolutionaries even though there wasn’t actually any real revolution. At that point. So my parents tried their best – they really did! – but things weren’t going in their favour. There was a lot of civil unrest, especially in places like your hometown where there was never really any news. Or any reliable news, at least.”

Hands fidgeting in his lap, he looks out of the window again. He clears his throat. “So there were riots, and minor rallies and things, but nothing really came to anything until maybe two years into my parents’ reign. And my parents didn’t want this at all, you know! They were doing their best, but it was really difficult for everyone. Anyway, eventually a leader with actual power came up and threatened revolution. The monarchists wanted to fight – of course they did: their power was at stake – but my parents accepted the terms and were banished here.

“And it’s not a bad place to be banished. Very pretty, spacious, running water and a good source of food from the gardens and across the border,” he waves his hand in roughly that direction, “so my parents settled down here. Their home country had its own monarchs, and because of the dead king’s will, it was better to just keep my parents in the country and set up a power shift to the people instead. I mean, they did change things later and could have sent my parents back, but there were more important things to worry about by then. So anyway, that’s why it was a power shift, rather than having an abdication or a new regency or something. I guess everyone wanted some sort of democracy, or at least something that didn’t involve almighty rulers.

“But that didn’t really work out, in the end. The leader everyone had put their hopes on failed them. Maybe the pressure got to them, but they turned out to be even more tyrannical than the original king, and even worse unrest began to spread. Famine, too, and most people fell into poverty. A lot of people died. Do you know about that part?” he asks sadly.

Frisk nods, unsure. They’ve heard, occasionally, of ‘bad times’ and ‘the hunger’, but nothing concrete. Only when their aunt and uncle wanted to scare them. It all sounds like something from a story, something that doesn’t have any relevance to them at all, but Asriel looks so serious that they can’t help but believe him.

“Well,” he goes on. “That went on for a few years. Eventually there was a real revolution, and the old leader was executed. The new regime seems to have worked out alright, or at least better than that one. And it has gone on for some time now, hasn’t it? But there’s a lot of propaganda: that’s why the average person doesn’t know what’s going on. We worked that out when Chara came here. They didn’t know anything either, but…that was for a different reason.”

Frisk makes a questioning noise. History’s all well and good, but that isn’t really what they wanted to hear.

Asriel obliges. “So, around the end of that first attempt at a republic or whatever it really was, just before the revolution, things were really bad for the people living in the outskirts. There was no information, no food, no hope, I guess. I mean,” he laughs, embarrassed, “I’ve tried so hard to make up excuses, because I know it’s important to be accepting and understanding, but I just can’t. I can’t understand why anyone would go to the lengths they did. Even now, Chara won’t tell me everything, but from what I understand, their village painted them as a demon, saying they were the one responsible for the pathetic harvests, the disease and everything. I know a lot of horrible things must have happened to them then, but they won’t talk about it: all I know for certain is that they ran away, to this forest. Pretty much exactly like you did.”

It’s unnervingly quiet here, in a room of high, curving walls and bookcases too tall to reach the top of. Frisk noticed it the day before too, but it was different then: spookier, for a start. Now it just feels intense. There’s none of the bland, outside noise they’re used to. There’s only Asriel, looking far into the distance.

“I was the one who found them, too,” he goes on, absent-mindedly. “But they were in a much worse state than you were. They were dying. I didn’t know what to do: I was so scared, terrified of losing them even though I’d never met them before, so I picked them up and carried them through the woods. I don’t remember how far I got, just that it was dark and cold and I couldn’t stop crying. I was young back then.

“I blacked out, eventually, and when I woke up, my parents were there. They said a witch had saved me and Chara, but for a price. Chara wasn’t supposed to have lived, so…to save them, the witch tied their life to mine. It didn’t mean much to me at the time, and I don’t think it meant much to them either: it just meant that we aged the same. We both know now that it also means we’ll die at the same time, but Mum and Dad didn’t tell me that part.

“So things were fine, for a while.” He’s smiling now, eyes crinkling up as he watches something Frisk can’t see. “Chara…well, they took some time to get used to us, but things were okay for a few years. They, um, they occasionally liked to fight the humans that came here. Just travellers who got lost, but Chara was…kind of aggressive. Mum always managed to stop them, though, and Dad would calm them down, and things would be fine. So that was great! I’d been kind of lonely, anyway, and they were the best friend I could have asked for. Still are.

“About five years after they came here, though, something bad happened.” He’s looking at his lap, and Frisk can’t take their eyes off his horns, his ears hanging down at the sides of his face. “There were always humans who got lost in these woods, but one night some really bad people came. I don’t remember much of it, but I remember being woken up by shouting, and then waking up again in the inner garden. Chara was next to me, covered in blood and I was just so relieved when they looked over at me and I realised the blood wasn’t theirs.

“But there were a lot of bodies. My parents…they were dead, too. Killed by the intruders. I didn’t know what to do, but Chara took me back to my room and told me not to leave while they took care of things.” He swallows heavily, lifting his head to smile at Frisk. In the light, his fur looks like it’s glowing. Not really thinking about it, they walk over to hug him. It just feels like the right thing to do, and though he clenches up under their arms for a second, he relaxes into them the next.

Head resting on their chest, he goes on. “Well. Anyway, Chara came back to get me maybe an hour later. They comforted me, in their way, and they took me down to the inner garden again. I didn’t want to go at all, but…Chara can be forceful, when they want to. They showed me a new flower in the middle of the garden – the yellow one, the _really_ bright one – and said the witch had come again. We shouldn’t have survived, she’d said, apparently. She cursed us for it: not only are our lives tied together, but they’re tied to that flower too, now. It can’t be harmed, but it’s withering away slowly, and when it dies…I mean, you can guess, right? And we’re locked here until the curse is broken, unable to age, unable to leave. Which isn’t so bad, to be honest. We’ve been here for about a hundred years now, haven’t we? I don’t even mind, much. It’s a good place to be, and Chara’s with me.”

He doesn’t sound like he’s lying, either. Frisk can understand. They stroke his ear, a little, and it’s far softer than it looks. They keep doing it.

Asriel seems like a very open person, something Frisk doesn’t have a whole lot of experience with. If he hadn’t been, they’re not sure they would have had the confidence to ask, “How do you break the curse?”

Going by his expression, it doesn’t look like that question’s any more intrusive to him than what he’s already been talking about. That’s good. Frisk doesn’t want to intrude on any of his boundaries, not when he’s trusting them so fully.

“Huh? Oh, um. Honestly, I’m not sure. Chara told me the witch said the only way was ‘for the beast to learn to love a human’, but that doesn’t really make any sense. I mean, Chara’s human and I love them a lot, so you’d think it would have broken by now. I’ve asked Chara about it, but they promise they’re not hiding anything that the witch said, so maybe it’s just a faulty curse? Or something. I don’t really understand magic: I can’t do it, not like my parents could. Well, either way, I guess we’re stuck like this at this point! I’m sort of resigned to it now, and we’ve both lived a good long time, so I shouldn’t really be complaining.”

He gently takes Frisk’s arms off his shoulders and squeezes their hands, still smiling. Frisk wonders vaguely if he’s a love-struck idiot or completely blind to logic, if he can’t even see that the curse isn’t about him. But. Well. That’s not really their business. That’s Chara’s, and they definitely have some chatting to do with _them_.

No way is Frisk just going to let some stupid curse run its course on someone as kind as Asriel.

“Well!” Asriel gets up and stretches, yawning widely and showing off pretty impressive fangs that Frisk can’t imagine him actually using. “We’ve been here for a while, haven’t we? Want to go see something else? The view from the top is pretty spectacular.”

Frisk nods happily and takes his hand as he leads them from the library. They wonder if he guessed they can barely read, seeing as he didn’t actually show off any of the books.

“Still,” Asriel says in a pondering voice as they go down the hallway, “I’m surprised Chara’s been so welcoming to you. They pretty much loathe humans.” He laughs lightly. “Maybe it’s because you look alike?”

“Huh? We don’t, though,” Frisk furrows their eyebrows.

“Sure you do: you’re both roughly the same shape, same hair colour and all, right?”

“They don’t even have the same skin colour as me!”

Now it’s Asriel’s turn to look confused. “But don’t you guys change yours? I mean, Chara goes bright pink if they stay out in the sun too long: don’t humans just change skin colour?”

Frisk shakes their head, a little pleased that they know something he doesn’t. “That’s really not how it works.”

“Really? Wow, humans are complicated.” He laughs again, though, a touch more genuinely than before.


	3. Because it's Warm

 Frisk isn’t avoiding Chara. Let’s make that very clear. Chara is – pointedly and obviously – avoiding _them_.

Asriel’s pretty much the best company they’ve ever had, though, so they’re not _complaining_ about the fact that it’s been almost a week since they ran away from home and they still haven’t got to talk with Chara about the curse, but it’s…it’s frustrating. Things could be easier, could be running a little smoother. But they know there’s no point in waiting around for Chara to come and give them the answers, either.

So there’s just one aim in their mind when they wake up one morning, feeling fresh and fluffy and ready to seize the day: they need to go and speak to Chara. They clearly know more about this curse than Asriel does, and Frisk’s absolutely determined to break it for them both.

With that thought shining in their head, Frisk feels like they can do _anything_ and they pull on another of Chara’s old outfits before going to get breakfast from Asriel. Their ankle’s essentially healed now too, and no one’s saying anything about them leaving since it’s better, so they practically hop down the stairs.

“You look cheerful this morning,” Asriel says, handing them a mug of tea and a plate of toast and jam.

“Uh-huh! I’m going to make friends with Chara.”

He blinks. Frisk smiles back confidently, and after a shrug and a surprised-but-pleased smile he sits down across from them.

“Well, if you say you will, I’m sure you can do it. Just don’t talk too much, okay? They don’t like that.” He takes a sip of tea that he has to swallow quickly when another thought comes to him. “Oh, and you shouldn’t get too close, or touch them without their express permission. Don’t interfere with what they’re doing either, and definitely don’t try and do it for them unless they ask! But don’t get discouraged if they seem really stand-offish: they’re just like that, though I suppose you already know all about that! Oh, but you should definitely back down if they get _really_ hostile. It’s sometimes difficult to tell which is which, but you’ll probably do fine! Another thing: ….”

Frisk listens to his seemingly never-ending stream of tips on how to deal with Chara, smiling and sipping tea. It sounds so easy when he says it, but then, he’s had decades to practise. He’s just getting to what sort of flowers Frisk should ploy them with as presents when Frisk decides enough is enough and gets up.

If anything, he looks disappointed. “You’re already done? I didn’t even tell you their favourite jokes, just-”

“I appreciate it,” they blurt out quickly, “but isn’t that the sort of thing I should find out for myself?”

He looks about to protest, so they take the direct route of heading straight out of the door. “Anyway, I’m off!”

“Ah, wait, Frisk!”

Leaning back into the doorway, they hum in a questioning manner.

“Don’t upset them, okay? I mean, don’t get upset either, but just…” He’s wringing his hands a little, playing at the fluffed-up fur on his wrists.

They step back into the kitchen, shoes clapping on the tiles, and pick up one of his hands to do a pinky-swear with a finger much bigger than theirs. They manage it, somehow, and beam at him with all the sunshine they can muster.

“It’ll be fine!”

“…if you say so. They’re in the outer garden this time, just so you know.”

Frisk nods, stifles the urge to play with his ears (he’s looking so put-upon and worried that they can’t help but be tempted), and runs off through the halls of the castle.

Asriel has taken them out of the courtyard before, into the main grounds outside the castle, so they know their way around. It’s a sort of lopsided diamond surrounded by forest and with the castle in the middle, full of grass, flowers and vegetable beds. Frisk makes a not-really-very-stealthy circuit around it to find Chara. They’re hunched over one of the vegetable plots, their back to Frisk. Asriel warned Frisk not to go sneaking up on them _ever_ just five minutes earlier, so Frisk makes their arrival as loud as they can, scuffing their feet and humming. Chara doesn’t turn around, but Frisk thinks their shoulders stiffen a little.

Making sure to keep a good distance between the two of them, Frisk crouches down and stares at the tomato plants Chara’s pruning of dead vines. It’s a nest of green and grey and probably filled with bugs, so Frisk keeps their hands to themself. No point in _looking_ for trouble, especially with how quickly Chara’s swinging their cutting knife around.

Neither of them speaks for some time. Frisk knows full well that Chara’s even less of a talker than they are (to strangers, at least) and that they’ll have to be the one to make the effort, but it’s still difficult thinking of the best way to lead in.

Chara straightens up and moves over to a crop of runner beans strung up on wooden sticks tied into a frame and they start to prune there too. Frisk shakes the cramps out of their legs and follows, standing on the other side of the frame, keeping their eyes firmly on an unpleasant-looking spider sitting on an undersized bean pod.

They decide to do things the quick way.

“You know your curse?” they say a little croakily. “You’re the ‘beast’, aren’t you? Not Asriel, I mean.”

To their credit, Chara doesn’t startle or look up: they just keep shoving dead vines into the basket at their feet. “Of course I am,” they mutter, like they’re talking to themself. “You’d have to be an idiot not to work that out.”

“Or blinded by love.” Frisk can’t and won’t take the suggestiveness out of their voice.

“Or that,” Chara admits.

“So why haven’t you told him?”

Chara frowns as they cut out a particularly tough vine. “What’s it matter? We’re going to die soon either way.”

“It might help break the curse.”

“It won’t.”

“It _might_ ,” Frisk wheedles, earning themself a glare through the leaves and stalks separating the two of them.

“It won’t.” Their voice is finality itself, but then they add, bitterly, “I’m never going to love humans, so telling him won’t change a thing.”

It’s at this point that warning bells start to go off in Frisk’s head and they know – they just _know_ – that they should drop it, they should switch to a nice, inoffensive subject like how the potatoes are doing this year, but they’re also a kid filled with curiosity and they can’t help themself.

“Why are you so sure?”

In their defence, they don’t say it patronisingly: just curiously.

But Chara’s fist tightens on their knife until their knuckles are splotches of white and rich red, their lip curling in a sort of snarl. “I’d have thought you, of all people, would understand.”

That leaves Frisk floored for a second – just one – and then it clicks and they stare at their feet, at Chara’s old shoes.

“You knew?”

“Of course I knew.”

“But…I still like humans. I mean, I am one. And you are too.”

Chara doesn’t say anything. They cut at the plant viciously.

Frisk stays very still, watching them. They don’t think there’s anything they can say that’ll make Chara’s mood any better, so they try to change the subject.

“Um…does Asriel know too?”

A wry smile forces its way onto Chara’s mouth.

 “Asriel’s too sheltered: he’ll never guess. He didn’t even understand half the stuff _I_ told him, and that was face to face. Do you seriously think that someone like that is going to understand that I’m the beast?”

“He might. If you told him. I mean, you don’t have to-”

“Of course I don’t have to.” Their voice is back to anger. “It won’t change anything.”

So they’re back to square one, and Frisk tries again.

“Humans aren’t all like that.”

Chara rips their knife through a tangle of stalks, dragging them down the frame. “Tell that to the ones who came here to kill us. Over and over again.”

Frisk’s never seen eyes flush as red as Chara’s do (…or red eyes at all, but…) and they can’t help thinking that they’re beautiful, even when burning with anger. Chara keeps cutting – calmer, but still with a vengeance – and Frisk watches them while trying to round up their thoughts into something rational and logical.

Asking them to tell Asriel so they can work it out together is a no-go. Okay. So Frisk just has to do something about it themself, and they think they can. They’re not an idiot (most of the time): they know that there’s something significant in the fact that Chara will talk to them, despite how much they hate humans. They know they’re as good a chance as any to get Chara to break the curse. And they know they need to break it, for Asriel’s sake even if Chara doesn’t seem to care if they both die.

So (a little bluntly, perhaps) Frisk asks, “Why are you okay with talking to me, then?”

Chara shrugs, refusing to make eye contact. “Asriel brought you in.”

That seems fair. Frisk nods, and since Chara looks like they’re going to be occupied with the beans for a good long time more, they sit down on the grassy edge surrounding the vegetable bed.

It’s peaceful now that they’re not arguing. Chara’s work isn’t exactly rhythmical, but it’s satisfying to watch.

There was something about the way Chara said that they knew, though, and it’s gnawing at Frisk like the faint buzz of a mosquito in a dark room. They sounded sympathetic, Frisk thinks, and it’s a bit of a new concept. That someone would use sympathy and not pity. Or worse. And they’re not sure if they like Chara yet, but, no matter how stand-offish they might be, Frisk doesn’t think this is something they’d be flippant about.

“It was mostly verbal,” they say.

They’re being intentionally ambiguous but Chara nods like they understand. Like they’d be open to hear more, a little bit. And Frisk thinks they’d do a lot to gain Chara’s trust, if only to break the curse. So, heart racing just too much to ignore (hands shaking just enough to have to sit on them to hide it), they talk about their childhood.

 

By the time noon rolls around, Chara and Frisk have visited four more different vegetable plots, involving far more lettuce than Frisk thought necessary for two people until Chara admitted that it was mostly for attracting slugs and snails.

So they walk side by side, with a good half-arm’s length between them. Chara hadn’t really made much reaction to any of the things Frisk said (and though Frisk had been hoping, they hadn’t shared anything of their own past either), but they weren’t so hunched over anymore. They didn’t have that twitchy look to their eyes, or the sense that they’d run away as soon as look at you.

Or cut you as soon as look at you, but Frisk hadn’t been _that_ scared about that. Not too much, anyway.

They’re still hiding something, they’re still uncooperative and clearly have no interest in ever being cooperative, but that’s okay, probably. Frisk will just have to work harder on them. They sidle up a little closer to Chara’s side and aren’t immediately pushed away, so they can’t stop from smiling triumphantly.

It’s all a little unreal, if they think about it – the castle, its history, its inhabitants, the fact that _they_ of all people are here – so they don’t think about it, as such. Better to just enjoy it.

The sun’s weak but bright, lighting up a cover of steadily darkening clouds and the two of them walk back to the courtyard without hurrying. They don’t have to go looking for Asriel because apparently he’s been waiting for them (nervously), pacing around in the cavernous entrance hall with an open book lying unread on one of the side tables. His face lights up in a relieved smile when he sees them.

“Find many snails?” he says in perhaps the worst attempt at trying to sound casual that Frisk has ever heard. His palms are probably sweating too, the big softie.

“There'll be a glut of slugs after the rain if you want to go collect them.” Chara does a much better job of sounding casual, but of course they would.

“Yeah, I probably will. Do you want to come to the kitchen for lunch?” He leads the two of them down and Chara leaves a trail of soil in their wake. Frisk decides it would be polite to just not mention it.

In the kitchen, warm from cooking, there are bowls of soup and plates of bread and cheese, and Frisk descends on it with all the appetite that Chara doesn't seem to have. It’s a little unbelievable, considering how wonderful Asriel’s cooking is, but if you’ve been eating it for decades, the effect might wear off, Frisk reasons. They, on the other hand, can’t get enough.

They’re on their fourth hunk of bread (somehow still warm – he must have been toasting it) when he laughs at them.

“You really like that bread, huh?” He’s just started his second, of course.

Frisk smiles with their mouth full in the universal ‘you bet I do’ expression.

“Sure is nice to get some positive feedback,” he mock-sighs. “Chara just eats too little and doesn’t say anything.”

Chara refuses to be ruffled. “I like your cooking,” they say, without looking up from their soup.

“It’s so good,” Frisk manages to confirm once they’ve swallowed properly.

An especially soft, mushy smile blossoms up on Asriel’s face.

“Thank you! I’ve never had my mum’s gift for pastry, but if it’s bread, I can do it! I spent a year fixing a proving oven in here just to make the rising easier, too.” His voice gets dreamy. “I’ve always thought I’d love to go and see what bakeries do nowadays, especially in big cities, or maybe even learn techniques at one, but…you know…” he trails off and cringes, almost like an apology. Chara’s hand grows tighter around their spoon.

“But I probably wouldn’t have the patience to learn anyway!” he laughs easily, brushing it off. “Goodness knows I had a hard enough time paying attention in history lessons.”

“You _were_ always terrible at history,” Chara says, a bit stiffly but not enough that you’d notice if you weren’t looking for it.

“Yeah, okay, but you didn’t even try to pay attention,” Asriel retorts. “The amount of times Mum despaired over you, I swear…”

“Asgore said I was a delight, though.”

“Once. And I’m pretty sure that that gets overshadowed by the fact that you actually got him to break his century-long record of not swearing.”

Chara _tsk_ s, swirling their spoon around. “That was one time.”

“Exactly enough to break a record.” Asriel’s smugness is tangible.

By this time Frisk’s just watching the two of them, contented and full (and still nibbling on bread). The kitchen feels so stupidly warm, but not unpleasantly so. Just the three of them, and Frisk feels comfortable enough to melt into the table (even that feels so good against their arms – smooth but ridged with old grooves and scrapes). It’s when Asriel starts trying to push bread into Chara’s mouth while they cringe and push him away that Frisk decides to do the tactful thing and take their leave.

 

They pass back by the kitchen maybe half an hour later, looking for a handkerchief they’re sure they used at lunch, and they can hear the other two talking. The doorway’s angled just right so neither of them see Frisk as they hop out of sight and press up against the wall. Privately, they think that it’s probably less the angle of the door and more the way Chara and Asriel are barely inches from each other, their fingers entwined as they lean over the now-cleared table.

“I’ve been counting,” Asriel says quietly. “It’s been dying so slowly these past years. I think it might be slowing down: it hasn’t lost a single petal since last spring.”

Chara murmurs something very low, and then Frisk can’t make out anything more than rustles and the creaks of old wooden chairs. They slip their head round the doorframe – slowly and steadily, holding their head up so their hair won’t go spilling into sight – and peek into the kitchen.

Asriel’s stroking Chara’s cheek, the softest of smiles on his face, like only he seems able to do. And Chara’s receptive to it. Leaning into the touch – not much, not exactly affectionately, but still leaning into him.

When he leans forwards to kiss them, Frisk spins back around and pads down the hall as quietly as they can. They’re not embarrassed at all: energised would be a better word for it. Everything’s so simple: the flower isn’t dying as quickly as it might, Chara’s open to liking them (they’re _sure_ ), and they’re so determined to break this silly curse that they feel they could do anything to do it, anything to protect Asriel and Chara.

They practically dance up the stairs to the library (for a nap), and the world feels bright and filled with hope despite the pouring rain outside. It stays like that all afternoon, well into the evening and past the time when they say goodnight to the other two, right up until a clap of thunder wakes them into a night that feels _wrong_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (In case that's your thing, I got a [twitter](https://twitter.com/eristastic). I complain about writing a lot)


	4. Give and Take, Borrow and Steal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is me callously ignoring my four other writing projects because this chapter was too important to me to not write Right Now.   
> (That does mean the next one might take a while, though)

They can’t place why, or how, or when, but the bubbling good mood they’ve had all day has withered and died in their chest, leaving them with just a growing sense of dread.

Which is stupid. They shouldn’t be feeling like that: nothing’s wrong, they’re sure nothing’s wrong, but…

The floor feels freezing on their feet when they get out of bed, sorely missing the warm bundle of blankets the second they leave them. The dressing gown helps: it’s much too big, but they’re grateful for that, this time. The lack of candles doesn’t.

They walk the expanse of the room anyway, over to the wall-sized windows. With one hand keeping their dressing gown closed, they whip the curtains back and stare into the night.

It takes some time for their eyes to adjust, with the moon full and the lightning rhythmic as the pouring rain, but when they do, they can see someone walking up the grounds towards the courtyard. Chara’s not wearing a cloak – they must be sodden at this point – but Frisk doesn’t stay to take in the scenery: they’re out of the door and running down the stairs within a heartbeat.

The rain’s too heavy for them to brave the courtyard when they get to the main entrance. Instead, they open the doors as wide as they’ll go and stand in the hall, tugging their dressing gown close around their shoulders. And they wait.

Rain sprays them, wind buffets them, and they’re probably ruining the first half of the entrance hall, but they’re too on edge to care much. Or they’re too full of curiosity to care much. So full that they’ll ignore the little voice telling them that this is quite obviously the exact opposite of what will get them in Chara’s good books.

So they wait, and fidget, and hold their breath until the courtyard doors open.

Sopping wet and entirely insouciant, Chara walks in and closes the door behind them. Frisk’s curiosity congeals and sinks down into the pit of their stomach when they see Chara’s holding a knife – not the gardening one, or any from the kitchen, but a proper one. It’s clean, but in this rain that means nothing. The stains on Chara’s clothes mean more.

Chara stops when they see Frisk, their feet skidding the smallest amount on soaked paving stones, and then they walk inside, passing right by Frisk without looking at them.

“What did you do?” Frisk tugs their dressing gown tighter, shivering despite themself.

The balance is swaying here: it’s anyone’s guess as to whether they’ll actually stop, if there’s any reason for them to care what Frisk thinks.

But they do stop again. Maybe it’s just because they know they have to make sure Frisk doesn’t say anything. Or maybe they’re frustrated and want to take it out on someone. Or maybe…Frisk doesn’t know: they just want a _reason_ for the anger they can see locked up tightly in Chara’s stance.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Frisk doesn’t say anything, because there’s no point to it when they both know that was a lie. A shiver thunders down their spine, mirroring the heavy crash outside, and Chara storms over to close the doors with a frown. They pause, hands still on the brass door handles.

“They were out to kill us,” they say, quietly.

“How many?”

“Three.”

And then the two of them look at each other properly, dripping wet on a rain-washed floor with all the candles unlit. Frisk doesn’t know what they’re supposed to do; how they’re supposed to react is a mystery to them. How Chara _wants_ them to react is a mystery to them, but Chara probably didn’t want them to react at all, or know. So this one is their fault. And though they can’t say they feel bad for the travellers Chara killed (because it was in self-defence: they’ll believe that), it all feels very wrong and very cold.

They open their mouth to say something, but it dies with the sudden burst of light from behind them: a candle, illuminating the room weakly.

“What are you two doing down here?” Asriel asks sleepily, half-laughing like it’s a joke he doesn’t quite get.

Chara stiffens and slips the knife behind their back without missing a beat.

“We couldn’t sleep,” they lie through smiling teeth.

“Oh, okay…” He rubs his eyes, yawning slightly, and then freezes in the middle of it. Slowly, he lowers his hand and moves the candle further in front of him. “Chara…what’s that…? Why are your clothes…?”

He trails off, and Chara doesn’t pick up the question.

Frisk stands between them – Asriel still high up at the top of the stairs, Chara scowling at the floor – and they feel like they did the first night: a spectator watching a scene play out between figures they couldn’t possibly touch. This isn’t where they’re supposed to be – they shouldn’t even be _seeing_ this, they aren’t that important! – but they can’t run now.

And Chara still hasn’t answered. With slow steps, Asriel walks down the stairs.

“Why’s the floor all wet? You’re both…you’re both soaking…H-hey…” It sounds like filler, something to fill the space with because he has to know that neither of them is going to speak. Frisk wraps their fingers together, pressing and pulling until it hurts.

Asriel stops when the three of them are in a triangle and he looks back and forth between them, takes in the state of Chara’s clothes.

“Chara, what did you do?” he asks, very quietly.

They don’t say anything.

“…did you go fighting again?”

A sharp nod.

Asriel swallows.  “Did you…did you kill them?”

Another nod.

“Are you hurt?”

They look at him properly then, like they’re startled he’d ask, but they shake their head.

Relief floods his expression and the tension seems to leave him, somewhat. “Oh, thank goodness…”

“What do you mean?” Chara, on the other hand, is as tense as ever.

“I…don’t think I could have handled losing you too. Not you.” That ever-present smile is back, small and embarrassed. Frisk marvels at it, because they’re not sure they could even dream of smiling right now.

“I killed them, Asriel.”

“I know.” He’s still smiling.

There’s a dreadful few seconds of silence as Chara gapes at him, and then they’re angry, furious, bristling at every corner, their fists (one still holding the knife) shaking.

“For years…for _decades_ I keep this from you, and you don’t care?! Just a happy smile and an ‘I’m glad you’re safe’?!” Their voice breaks at the end, but it’s not from anger anymore.

“Decades?” Asriel’s smile wavers. “You’ve…done this more than once?”

Chara doesn’t answer him and the silence comes back, uncertainty shocking through it and through all three of them along with it.

Or two of them, Frisk corrects themself. Chara doesn’t look like they can feel it, because their mouth is widening into something that might be called a smile by someone who’d never seen one before. They laugh loudly and hoarsely, thistles and thorns packed into their voice.

“Of course…of course you wouldn’t realise!” they say in between choking heaves of breath. “Couldn’t even imagine it, could you? I killed them all, everyone who came here to kill us: I cut them out before they had a chance! But you didn’t realise; it didn’t even enter your head that I might not have reformed, did it?!”

“Chara, that’s-” Asriel holds a hand out to them, but they’ve drowned too far into hysterics to listen to him.

“And because you think so _much_ of me, because you’re so _optimistic_ , I bet you never even guessed that I’m the one killing us both, huh?!”

Somehow, through fur glowing white in the candlelight, Asriel goes ashen.

Chara doesn’t seem to notice. “That fucking flower dies a little more every time I kill someone! Isn’t it poetic? Isn’t it just _marvellous_? I can wait for them to kill us or I can kill us myself: aren’t I just fucking blessed? But it gets better! Through the frankly unbelievable level of trust you have in me, you haven’t thought even once that I’m obviously the beast, have you? _I’m_ the one who has to learn to love humans, and I _can’t fucking do it! I’m_ the one killing us!”

Their breath scrapes through their throat once, twice, and then they straighten up and the laughter stops as quickly as if it had been extinguished.

It’s difficult to know what they’re thinking (Frisk doesn’t want to know) but they take one good, long look at Asriel again and then they’re throwing the doors open, running out through the courtyard into the other wing. He doesn’t follow them.

Frisk watches the candle flutter and gutter in the wind for a few minutes before they go to close the door. Chara can’t love humans, they said. There was so much frustration coiled up into the words and it’s springing through Frisk’s ears mercilessly. There’s not a doubt in their mind that they’ve failed.

Asriel’s still watching the closed doors vacantly so they take his free hand and walk up the stairs, almost dragging him. But that wouldn’t be possible: he’s easily three times their weight.

At night, the dozen and more stained glass windows look like cheap, faded imitations of themselves, and the castle corridors feel colder than they have any right to be. Frisk doesn’t even know what they’re doing: they know from stories that this is the point where the hero, where Asriel runs after Chara and they reconcile, but somehow it doesn’t feel like that would work.

Looking back to see how blankly Asriel’s staring at the floor in front of him only convinces them more of that.

They bring him to his room and push him gently towards the door, turning to go back to their own room. He catches their wrist. Obediently, they turn back to him and wait for him to find his words, even though every sense they have is screaming at them to get out, to run back to where they’ll be alone because they don’t _belong_ here. This isn’t their story: it’s like they’re just borrowing this life, no matter how many times they try to kid themself by pretending they could save Asriel and Chara.

Tonight’s shown them that they couldn’t even hope to _try_.

But Asriel’s looking at them like he doesn’t understand any of that, so they don’t say it either.

“Chara’s…Chara’s always been like that,” he says with a ghost of a smile. “I feel like, sometimes, they still think they’re the demon their village made them out to be. It’s been a long time since then, but…I guess you don’t just lose that sort of thing.” He sighs out a sad little laugh.

“Frisk, please don’t hate them for this.”

That takes them by surprise, even more than how his face looks when twisted by tears.

He wipes them away quickly with the back of a hand. “They’re not evil, they’re not a demon, they won’t hurt you, I _promise_. I didn’t…I really didn’t have any idea that they’d done…all of that, but they wouldn’t kill without a reason for it, I’m sure they wouldn’t. I know them better than anyone: I know they wouldn’t, I know they _couldn’t_ , believe me! They’re not the greatest person, but they wouldn’t do that.”

He takes a deep breath. “I’ll understand if you want to leave tomorrow, and of course I’ll give you all the food and things you’d need for a journey, but…”

They don’t give him the chance to say ‘please don’t leave’ because they’re already hugging him, wrapping their arms around his waist, twisting their hands into the fur of his back. They can’t reach all the way around and they’re only tall enough to reach his chest, but they hear his breath as he blows out the candle quickly, the clatter of it hitting the floor, and then he’s hugging them back and it’s like they fit.

Borrowed space; a borrowed life, but they don’t care about that right now.

They know that his hurt matters more than theirs anyway, so they don’t say anything, even though some small part of them is still curious enough to want to ask him about it – is it the fact that Chara’s been purposefully killing the two of them? Is it the fact that Chara’s been killing at all? Is it the fact that Chara never once told him, never trusted him enough for that?

Whatever it is, they can’t imagine for a second that he’d hold it against Chara themself.

But that becomes tomorrow’s problem, and they fall asleep together, in Asriel and Chara’s room. They’re both too shaken to sleep alone. It’s so comforting: his warmth and the sound of his breathing lull them to sleep easily, but…

But.

Somewhere in their chest, they know they’re not the one who should be here.


	5. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me a lot longer than it should (the final scene especially, ugh), but! This one was fun to do: thanks for sticking along!

Everything’s back the way it should be the next morning, for about five minutes. That’s the time it takes Frisk to stop curling into the warmth of the bed and realise that the morning light isn’t going to go away.

With a head still full of fuzz and fluff, they look around and remember that they’re in the wrong room. Asriel’s not around. That’s probably a good thing, they think: he never has been before. He and Chara always get up stupidly early. So that’s normal. Things are normal.

But the kitchen’s empty when they go downstairs after dressing. It’s cold; a room of stone and tiles with no sunlight falling through the thin glass window to warm it. They turn away from it as quickly as they came.

There’s a sort of urgent adrenaline going through them that they’re not sure they’ve felt from something like this before: it was never a problem if they woke to an empty house, back then. They’re not scared of being alone. But it’s not an absence of people that they’re scared of, here: it’s an absence of _them_ , of Asriel and Chara, of what that means. They’re sure the two of them are around, somewhere, but that doesn’t stop the chill seeping into their bones.

Neither of them is in the library, the study, the guest rooms, the storage rooms, the vast dining room or the eerie music room, and by the time Frisk’s down in the wine cellar (a few dusty caskets off in the corner, but mostly filled with jars of preserved vegetables or snails) they know they’re just wasting time. Feeding their unease. It’s that old feeling of not belonging, they know, but knowing doesn’t make it any easier. Knowing you’re afraid of the monsters in your imagination doesn’t make it any easier to step into the darkness of woods on a stormy night as you run from the only home you’ve ever had.

Knowing that it’s this familiar feeling of being out of place doesn’t make it any easier to uncurl their fingers from the woodwork of the support beams, to walk back up the stone steps to ground level. They take some breaths, deep and full in the damp air.

Maybe it _would_ be easier to just stay in the cellar for a while, but they stamp that thought out and stamp up the stairs with the same ferocity.

Which is to say, very little.

As Frisk had known they would be, the two of them are in the inner garden, standing in front of the straggly, green-grey tangles that dominate it – the weed crowned with a single golden flower among hundreds of washed-out buttercups. It’s a quiet morning after the rain, quiet enough for Frisk to stand behind the stone of the arch leading to the inner garden and listen to them. It feels fitting, just as much as it feels like betrayal, but they’re not going to pretend that they don’t want to know.

Asriel’s doing that thing where he smiles and laughs weakly, sniffing to stop the tears. “That’s…” he breathes deeply. “That’s not very much left. You’re sure?”

Hidden with their back to the wall, Frisk can’t see what Chara does, but it’s clearly a nod from how Asriel makes a small, helpless keening sound in the back of his throat.

He breathes deeply again. “Oh. Oh, gosh. Well.” Sniffing loudly, he seems to gain some more control over himself. “Well. With any luck, no one will try and attack us soon, right? It can’t be that bad. We can stretch it out.”

“Two petals, Asriel.”

“We can stretch it out. Heck, we could try just _talking_ to them!”

“You think I haven’t tried?” It sounds like a genuine question.

Asriel pauses. “I don’t know.”

Chara says nothing, and the silence around them feels like thunder.

“It’s going to be okay, though,” Asriel picks up with a little more energy. “We’ve had a long run. If we have to go soon, I’m glad we got this time together anyway. I’m glad I got to spend my life with you.”

There’s the sound of fabric crumpling, but Frisk couldn’t say why for the life of them. They want so badly to sneak a look, but it feels like that would be the worst breach of privacy, worse even than this.

“I really, really love you, Chara,” Asriel says, and no, they were wrong: this is definitely a bad enough breach of privacy on its own. Frisk can’t hear what Chara replies – it’s so low, they have to be whispering it or something – and they don’t think they want to. Aren’t they stealing enough by just listening?

There’s a minute or two of indistinguishable sounds of soft movement and peaceful silence, and Frisk would walk away if they thought their footsteps wouldn’t be as good as shouting out that they’re here.

There’s another of Asriel’s deep ‘I’m getting a hold of myself’ breaths.

“Chara, I…I know I haven’t been the best…person you could have around you, and…I know I’m too demanding already and I probably still come off as needy and selfish even now,” he laughs nervously, and Frisk wants to scream at him that he’s wrong (they can’t understand why Chara doesn’t), “but…can I ask something of you?”

There’s a small noise from Chara that sounds like it should go with a nod.

“Please don’t hate them. I don’t want them to go. Don’t blame them, it was just…”

“I don’t hate them.”

Frisk’s so sure it’s a lie. So sure, but they can’t stop the hope, and clearly Asriel can’t either, because the smile reaches his voice.

“Can we just go back, then? To living with the three of us? Can we forget this happened?”

“You’ll have to ask _them_ that, won’t you?”

“They don’t hate you either, Chara.” His voice is guarded, but Chara snorts, breaking up the tension as easily as a knife.

“Forgive me if I say you’re not the greatest judge in character, Ree.”

Asriel splutters something, and Chara’s probably grinning as they say, “After all, you fell in love with me, didn’t you? That’s just bad taste.”

“Firstly, don’t say that about yourself!” Asriel says indignantly. “Secondly, I’ve seen the way you’d choose to dress if I didn’t literally pick out your clothes and I don’t want to hear a thing about bad taste from _you_!”

Chara gleefully keeps teasing him, playing him like the well-tuned piano locked away upstairs, and Frisk figures it’s as good a time as any to leave, now that it’s not so silent. They’re smiling too, as they scurry back into the castle.

 

Days pass, and things do go back to normal. Frisk pretty much gives up on their ‘get Chara to like them’ plan and focusses on just getting the two of them able to talk. Talking without Asriel in the room as a mediator would be nice, too, but they’re careful not to hope for too much.

So in the end, they spend the best part of their time with Asriel, hanging around him and helping him cook and refurbish the castle. They should know better than to monopolise his time like that (they know, they know, they tell themself that every day) but he never seems annoyed. And he did ask specially that they stay. So they allow themself this.

And if he seems delighted with the three of them settling back down (blood and bodies forgotten, washed away with the rain), Chara at least seems content. They’re still shaky and restless whenever Frisk is around them, avoiding all eye contact, but there’s no hatred that Frisk can feel. It makes sense, anyway: they know enough to tell that Chara’s a…an unstable person, to say the least. It makes sense that they’d latch onto someone to fear after being caught out like that. It makes sense that they wouldn’t choose Asriel. It makes sense that they’d choose the person who reminds them of their past.

It makes sense, so Frisk doesn’t mind. They make sure they don’t.

Determined, they stay very good and follow all of Asriel’s rambling instructions to the letter when they’re with Chara. They don’t initiate conversation, they don’t initiate physical or eye contact, they stay a good distance away, they always smile and never, ever show signs of anger or irritation.

In two weeks, Chara’s back to bickering with Asriel during mealtimes, even when Frisk’s there.

In three, they manage a rough ‘thank you’ when Frisk helps them in the garden.

After a month, when they hear Frisk outside the music room door, they only freeze for a few seconds before playing again. They don’t turn around, but they don’t stop either when Frisk comes into the room with conspicuous creaking footsteps.

It’s all going so beautifully.

 

Frisk’s looking through one of the rooms in the old wing, searching for nice furniture to take back to the main building, when they hear shouting. For a moment they don’t think about it – it’s not like arguments going on around them is anything new – but then they remember where they are, and stop.

It’s Chara’s voice (of course it is) and some others Frisk can’t place and probably doesn’t know. They sprint out of the room, feet skidding on the stairs, hurtling to the main courtyard, and it’s all like it was before, back that first night.

This time there are three. A tall, intimidating woman with red hair glowing in the light of the sinking sun – she’s the one shouting with Chara, her face an ugly snarl. Tucked behind her protectively are two men, one so much taller than the other, but neither of them looks like a threat and Frisk ignores them. They’re a second away from running over there, pulling Chara back and trying to reason with them, but (not really to their surprise) they find they can’t.

They’re tied to the ground, like the stone’s managed to wind itself around their legs. This isn’t their place to interfere, it’s telling them. And that’s stupid: why shouldn’t they? This is their business too, now! They know that! They know that.

But clearly they don’t know it well enough, and they can’t bring themself to move forwards, to run into Chara’s line of fire.

One of the men catches sight of them as they stay paralysed in the archway between the courtyard and the inner garden, but he doesn’t say anything. Just watches them with an indifferent eye and turns away again. They wonder if they imagined the hint of a smile.

Chara doesn’t give them much time to think about it.

“I said get _out_!” they roar, their voice a cross between screaming and growling.

The woman doesn’t back down. “And I’m saying it can’t fucking hurt to let us stay for one night! There’s nothing around here for hours: we’ll die if we have to stay another night out there!”

“Then die!”

“We’re just asking for one room!”

“And I’m _telling_ you to get out before I make you.” Chara’s expression is ugly, even Frisk can see that. The flicker of hesitation in the woman doesn’t go unnoticed either.

But she recovers quickly. “What the hell could _you_ do?”

The knife is as good an answer as any. Frisk can’t even see where Chara pulled it from, just that it’s in their hands now – the same from the night of the storm. The woman blanches but seems to steel herself, reaching for the spear tied to her pack. Chara’s face hardens, and that, if nothing else, rips Frisk’s feet into a stumbling run towards them.

One of the men is already trying to reason nervously with the woman, but Frisk gets there first, breaking all the lovingly laid-out rules Asriel gave them as they grab Chara’s arm and hold them back. Chara stops, trembling with uncontrolled anger.

And fear, Frisk corrects themself. Chara’s so, so scared, Frisk can see it now. They shake their head earnestly: ‘this isn’t right’.

“Let go.”

The woman’s holding back too, now, staying on her guard while the taller man fusses loudly around her, but Frisk only has eyes for Chara.

“They’re going to kill us.”

“They’re not!”

“You don’t know _anything_ , Frisk: get back!”

Frisk sets their jaw and shakes their head, their fingers squeezing into Chara’s arm. Everything’s wrong: Asriel should be here – doing something, stopping them – but he hasn’t come. With Chara shuddering in their weak grip, they send a meaningful look over to the others. They get it, and the tall one manages to coax the woman away.

For a few minutes, there’s just the sound of them walking from the castle, and then there’s nothing but Chara’s heavy breathing, the clatter of their knife when it hits the ground. They’re shaking so badly that Frisk doesn’t want to look at their face, doesn’t want to see the anger. Or, worse, the panic. But whether they’re in any position to say it or not, they know it would be doing all three of them a disservice to pretend nothing’s happened.

“Wh-”

“Why did you let them get away.” Chara’s voice is treacherously flat.

“They weren’t…they weren’t a threat…”

“You don’t know that!”

That’s madness. It’s madness that anyone could have seen the three of them and thought, even for a second, that they were here to hurt anyone without being provoked into it. Frisk doesn’t know what they can say against that, so it’s probably a blessing that Chara has enough to say to make up for it.

They rip their arm from Frisk’s fingers. “You should have just let me kill them! I don’t give a fuck how kind they seemed: they were just waiting to kill us!”

“They _weren’t_.”

“You have no way of knowing that, and don’t you _dare_ tell me that I don’t either. You haven’t lived here for decades, you haven’t seen how many of them come here just to kill us, just for the thrill!”

It’s everything Frisk thought they’d say, and it hurts. “But what about the ones who don’t want that? What if they just wanted shelter?”

 “You can’t trust these people, Frisk!” Chara’s face is twisted in rage, but their voice is breaking, trembling. “They’ll tell you they’ll take care of you, that they’re perfectly decent people, and then they’ll turn right around and ruin your life with a smile on their face. You can’t _trust_ them, no matter how much you want to!”

“But you have to!” Frisk takes a step back, trying to keep their hands in Chara’s sight, trying to seem a hundred shades calmer than they are. “You have to trust people, Chara.”

“How can you say that? After what they did to you, how can you tell me that with a straight face?!” There’s raw confusion all over them, disappointment leaving their eyes hollow. “I thought you were like me!”

It’s worse than being slapped, and Frisk should know. They try and take a deep breath (just like Asriel does, just…just like him…) but it gets caught in their throat because, despite everything they’re trying to tell themself, Chara’s making sense. It would be the easiest thing in the world to give up, to stay in this magic castle, painstakingly snipped away from the real world, and forget everything. It’s the most tempting thing in the world and their heart burns with it, with the fierce longing to never, ever go back. To never, ever face what they’re scared of.

There’s nothing wrong with that. They know they’d never blame anyone else for doing it. A lifetime of hiding and smiling (‘they won’t be as angry if you look cute’), of excuses and endless loneliness – wouldn’t anyone want to leave that?

They never want to go back.

But that’s not the issue here.

“I want to trust them,” they say in a small voice. “It’s not about…it’s not whether they’ll hurt me or not, I just…don’t want to always be scared.”

“You don’t have to!” There’s a desperate, hideous smile on Chara’s face like a plea. “You don’t have to be scared with us.”

“That’s not enough.”

The smile disappears, betrayal hardening on top of it.

“We’re not enough,” Chara says dully.

“No, that’s not it! I just…don’t want to only have two people in the world that I can trust.” It shouldn’t feel like a confession to a crime, but it does, and Frisk can’t stand it – they start to fidget.

Chara doesn’t say anything. They’re completely still: arms hanging at their sides, eyes wide and unblinking. It’s not anger that’s left them like this, and that emboldens Frisk.

“Chara, it’s…this is…” They can’t find the words to say what’s already obvious to them. They swallow. “This is part of love, too. Love isn’t just about romance or family or friends or giving your heart up completely to someone or anything like that,” they wave their hands like they’re brushing away fog. “It’s _this_ , too. It’s trusting people. Giving them the benefit of the doubt, even if you don’t have any reason to. It’s having love and trust for people in general, and not just, you know…killing them.”

Far too late, Asriel appears in the doorway behind Chara. His eyes skim over the knife, the courtyard empty of corpses, Chara’s stiff back, and he seems to understand enough to stay where he is. Frisk can see his tension, though. It’s practically making his fur stick up on end.

“I thought you were like me,” Chara says finally, under an expertly crafted façade of emotionlessness.

“I _a_ -”

“Not enough. If you were like me at all, you’d know that’s all bullshit. You’d know it’s worthless to try.” Quite suddenly, they grin. Leer, actually. “I really thought you were like me.”

“You have to _try_ , Chara!” And maybe it’s indignation and hurt pride that’s making them shout, but if it gets through to Chara better that way then Frisk doesn’t care that they can’t stop themself. “You have to try and love people or you’re just going to die, and drag him with you! Don’t you care at all?”

Asriel’s expression darkens but he doesn’t move. Frisk reins themself in. Don’t lose it. Don’t make them angry.

“Of course I care.”

“But this is too much?”

“I can’t do it, Frisk.”

“But you do have to try!”

“Why?!” They spread their arms, fingers curling like claws. “Why is it of such _utmost importance_ that I try to trust people who’ve never done a goddamn thing to deserve it?!”

It seems unthinkable that this isn’t getting through to them, so Frisk tries to make it clearer. Pleading, purposefully hunching up to make themself smaller, they say, “This is exactly what the witch meant when she cursed you! There’s no reason to, but you still have to hold love in your heart for strangers or you’ll be the one hurting.”

For a second Chara stares at them and then they’re laughing the same chilling, gratingly uncomfortable laugh from weeks before, but this time it’s so much worse. Within seconds, there are tears budding in their eyes.

Eventually they calm down, everything about them radiating discomfort.

“And what if I said there never was a witch? What would you say then?” they ask, choking out the last of their laughs.

“…what?”

Across the way, Asriel’s just as confused. Frisk shares a quick perplexed look with him, hoping for answers and just seeing that he understands this as little as they do.

“There was never any witch,” Chara says, almost triumphantly. “It was always Asriel.”

Frisk can’t even remember to be upset. “I’m sorry, what?”

“He can’t do magic because it’s all stored up, or it’s all hidden away, or fuck if I know,” they say, still smiling unstably. “So when he’s upset, he transforms and uses it all. He saved my life twice, he tied our lives together, he tied our lives to that damn flower: it’s always been _him_. His parents didn’t even know until the first time and I didn’t know until after they’d been killed, when he came and told me why I was still alive. Can you even imagine? After the intruders, after all those deaths, after accepting death myself, seeing him like that and having him tell me what he’d done? And then he goes back to normal and can’t remember a thing and all I know is that I’m not the one he should have saved, but he did and I can never tell him.”

They laugh again, but it’s so much more hollow than hysterical. Frisk tries to concentrate on them, on every part of them if it’ll keep them from seeing Asriel’s reaction any more than they have to.

They didn’t know he could look so hurt, like he’d been slit open and bared for everyone to see. So they couldn’t look.

“Then isn’t that…isn’t that even more reason to try?” They’re stuttering over their words now.

“How could it _possibly_ be any more reason to?”

“I don’t know anything about this-”

“Then don’t say anything!”

“- _but_ , don’t you think that’s what he wanted? That maybe that…that other him or whatever it was, was just trying to force you into something that would help you?”

“Life isn’t that simple, Frisk.” They’re cold, the laughter gone. Frisk can’t understand how they changed so quickly, but even the evening air is growing chilled around the two of them now.

“Why can’t it be?”

“Because it’s _not_.”

Frisk wants so badly to tell them to stop making excuses to wall themself in, but no words come to them.

“Why can’t it be?” Asriel repeats their question from behind Chara.

At the sound of his voice, Chara freezes and melts, ready to run, in the blink of an eye but Asriel’s caught their arm before they can. They try and twist away, but they’re nowhere near strong enough for that. Wretchedly, they stay there.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, his voice cracking like the surface of a frozen lake. Frisk wants nothing more than to hug him, but it’s not their place now. The two of them are there, together, so Frisk doesn’t need to do anything but keep quiet. They clamp down their teeth.

“How could I?”

“How could you not?! Did you think this was something I didn’t ever need to know, that I’ve got some alter-ego?”

“I thought it’d just hurt you.”

“And this isn’t hurting me?!”

Chara’s wide, wide eyes are fixed to the stones at their feet. Their arm hangs limply in Asriel’s hand and they say nothing.

As if only now realising what he’s doing, Asriel lets their arm go abruptly. “I just…I just want you to trust me for once…”

“I do!” they protest, whipped out of silence. “Of course I do!”

“You’re not exactly showing it: do you even realise how much I’ve had to pretend I don’t see? As if I don’t notice that you’re hiding everything from me? Just because you won’t talk to me, you won’t open up to me…How could I not feel like you don’t trust me if you won’t talk?!”

Chara’s mouth quivers. “You don’t need to know. I’m not worth that.”

“Yes you _are_ , don’t say you’re not! I’m telling you that you _are_ worth that to me! You…you mean everything to me.” His face crumples.

The sun is really setting now, throwing purple and red scars across the clouds.

“I’m not ready to lose you,” he says, wringing his hands together and pulling at the fur.

Chara breathes heavily, unsteadily, blinking over and over again until their eyes are shining, their face a grimace of nothing Frisk can place.

“I’ve killed so many times,” they say quietly.

“I’m still not ready to lose you: I need you! I don’t understand any of this. You knew this all along and kept it to yourself? I’m the witch; I’m that powerful? I can do magic?” Asriel laughs nervously. “I don’t get any of this, Chara! I don’t care about the rest, I just want you to talk to me.”

Chara turns to him and that’s all the permission he needs to hug them, clinging to them even though they’re so much smaller than he is. His hands brush down their hair, twisting into the fabric at the back of their neck, and they hug him back, leaning up into him.

“Don’t hide so much,” he says brokenly. “I don’t want to be babied by you too, I can’t…I can’t believe you didn’t tell me something that important…”

They whisper feverish apologies, shaking their head like they’re trying to deny how everything played out. Frisk takes a step back.

It feels fitting, they think, as they watch the two of them. It worked. They managed it. Through so many twists of fate that weren’t their doing, everything’s on the road to how it should be, they think. And okay, maybe their judgment isn’t the best in the world, but…but. Still. Like ticking off steps to one of the recipes in those heavy books from Asriel’s kitchen, they think things through.

The mystery of the curse, if not the curse itself, has been ‘solved’.

Chara’s probably getting some much-needed (in Frisk’s opinion) emotional release.

They and Asriel are probably going to be able to talk this one out now.

And maybe there’s nothing Frisk, personally, can do about the actual terms of the curse, but they tried.

They think it over, and they know it’s finished now. An ending on the way to being happy and they’re filled with the curious and overwhelming feeling of not belonging. They’re not needed. Again. And they’re not always the best judge of when people don’t want them around (if they had been, they’d have come to the forest so much earlier), but…

Well. That’s not something they want to dwell on. Not that they’re particularly keen on dwelling on this feeling that nobody needs them, that nobody wants them now they’ve fulfilled their purpose, but that’s just how it is.

For now, they think they should probably make themself scarce.

Asriel stops them before they’re at the door, his head held up from Chara’s shoulder. “No, Frisk: don’t go.”

This isn’t what they’d planned for and they can’t pretend that hope doesn’t blossom in them, however weakly. They always have been too optimistic.

He laughs nervously, like he does so well. “You can, um, finish what you were saying. Before. I kind of interrupted you, didn’t I?”

Perhaps, but what else is there to say? Nothing they can say would make any difference. Shuffling their feet, they laugh, “You sort of finished it for me, didn’t you?”

Asriel smiles encouragingly. “I can’t say what they need to hear. I can’t do that.”

Chara looks up at him, irritated. “How about you don’t go and decide what I need to hear?”

“You do need to think about it, though,” Frisk puts in (probably too forward of them, but the others don’t seem to mind).

“You really do,” Asriel nods.

Chara clicks their tongue but they don’t pull away from Asriel (a completely reasonable decision, given how good he is to hug). They look like they’d be waving their arms emphatically if they did.

“Okay, so you say, but why? It’s completely unnecessary, I can’t-”

They falter and Frisk realises that they might be glaring at them. They cover it up quickly, but Chara’s already turned away from them.

“…I can’t do it, Frisk.”

“You just need to-”

“I _can’t_.” They hold Asriel tighter. “I can’t do it. I’m not like you: I can’t do this!”

“Then…” Frisk’s at a loss, unsure of what they can say to help. “Then why don’t you just try loving yourself?”

Chara makes a squawking sound. “No, no, you don’t understand, that’s a hundred times more impossible,” they say hurriedly, panicked.

“But if you don’t try and fulfil the terms-”

“I don’t mind,” Asriel puts in. “I don’t mind dying if it’s with Chara.”

Frisk shoots him an annoyed look, but with the way Chara’s gazing at him he probably doesn’t notice. And that’s fine. The way it should be, actually. It doesn’t stop it from being a stupid and unhelpful thing to say, but Frisk can look past that.

They’re about to say as much (or scarper, whichever works), but Chara opens their mouth, pauses, and then says very deliberately, “But…you’re human too.”

It takes a second to sink in.

Of course Frisk had thought of that. They’d considered it (wrapped it into their plans, even, at one point), but now it just feels a bit like a bad joke. They couldn’t possibly deserve that now. Could they?

But of course Asriel is beaming like it’s the best idea in the world, like he could never have been prouder. Frisk wants to please him. And Chara…Chara was the one who suggested it. As if it was a viable option to them.

They want to say yes, and they can’t keep the hopeful smile off their face either way. Chara picks up on it easily and nods to themself like approving a job well done, and Frisk lets them decide it for them. Excitement fills them up to the brim, dislodging the discomfort like it had never been there. And it’s going to come back, they know that full well, but for now it doesn’t matter (not when Asriel and Chara are both welcoming them so easily, like it’s the most natural thing in the world).

Hope’s a powerful thing.

“S-so!” they say, just a little too loud. “That takes care of that curse, but what about the first one? How are we going to untie your lives?”

Asriel and Chara look at each other, smiling, and Frisk realises that they’re dealing with two idiots.

Asriel grins. “That’s…that’s fine, actually.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It is,” Chara backs him up.

Frisk purses their lips disapprovingly (it just feels absurd, though, so they stop). “Okay, how about we work on that mutual dependency of yours next?”

Chara looks put out. “Why is a twelve year old lecturing us on romance?”

“Thirteen! I’m thirteen!”

“I don’t know, I think they have a point,” Asriel says thoughtfully. He’s promptly scowled at and corrects himself, “I don’t _agree_ with it! I just think…well, I mean, more to the point, it’s dark now: shouldn’t we be getting back inside?”

He doesn’t even hesitate to take Frisk’s hand and, with the other pushing the small of Chara’s back, he leads them back into the castle. Frisk hadn’t even realised how cold they were until they had his warmth to compare against.

He doesn’t make any indication for them to leave: not when they pass Frisk’s bedroom, not when he asks Chara to tell him everything they remember, not when his fur’s damp around his eyes as he forgets to pretend he’s not crying from the memories. Instead, he pulls them closer into a hug, for his sake more than theirs. He doesn’t even seem to think about it.

And Chara just smiles sadly too, always keeping Asriel in between the two of them but never actually jerking away from Frisk if they touch unexpectedly.

The three of them fall asleep together in a bed big enough to hold them all twice over, Frisk listening to the others’ slow breathing, curled up to Asriel’s side. It’s not their place to be, but they’re allowed there anyway. The feeling should be exhilarating, but it’s not: it’s…beautiful, they think. They’ve never before felt so determined to keep something safe.


	6. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't planning on writing this but then I got 4K down in one sitting, so clearly it had to happen.
> 
> It's an extra story focussing on Frisk about two years after the last chapter, and features Frisk/Monster Kid, a lot of heroics, Asriel and Chara being insufferably domestic, and a very angry dragon, vaguely based on the story of Rapunzel.  
> It's also a little violent.

“You’re going to do what.”

Frisk readjusts their pack without a hint of self-consciousness (and Chara can keep glaring at them all they like, Frisk has had two years to learn to brush it off like water from a duck’s wings). “I’m going off adventuring,” they repeat patiently.

“Why.”

Asriel, the darling, tries to be the voice of reason. “Chara, they’re fifteen now: of course they’re going to want some space!”

Chara glares at him and he sticks his tongue out at them before turning back to the washing up. Maybe-mollified, Chara picks up their tea cup and drinks deeply. Frisk waits.

“ _Do_ you need space?” Their eyes are rimmed in shadow, making the red seem even brighter and bloodier than usual, but Frisk is used to that too.

“Not really,” they shrug, fiddling with the straps of their pack. “I just want to go adventuring.”

“Where are you going to go?” Asriel asks warmly, wiping his hands down with one of the big, criminally fluffy towels hanging on the oven door before joining Chara at the table.

“I passed some woodsmen the other day – they said there’s a horrible beast guarding an unreasonably tall tower about a day’s walk from here.”

“This forest does tend to spawn weird things,” Asriel nods.

“Exactly, although I still maintain that the will o’ the wisp invasion was all Chara’s fault.”

Chara scowls into their tea. “ _I_ didn’t ask the blasted things to infest my garden.”

“No: as I recall, you shouted unrepeatable things at them and attacked them with fire,” Asriel says fondly, very obviously repressing a laugh. “But anyway, Frisk, you’re going to go and check that tower out?”

They shrug in an affirmative sort of way. “They say the beast’s hoarding treasure or something so I’m worried other people are going to go and attack it. And considering what the last ‘fearsome beast’ turned out to be,” they gesture towards the still-scowling Chara, “I’m worried for the adventurers.”

“Fuck you too, Frisk.”

“Well, I think it’s a great idea!” Asriel says, flicking Chara lightly on the cheek (they flick him back, harder, and he laughs). “Do you need me to get food ready for you? You just dug up the new crop of carrots, right? I can-”

Frisk shakes their head rapidly, terrified of Asriel’s fervour when it comes to feeding them. “No, I’m good, thanks: I already packed.”

“Oh.” Disappointment shines brightly on his face and now it’s Chara’s turn to laugh at him, colour blooming on their pallid cheeks.

“You’re so obsessed with mothering them.” They poke his forehead, grinning in a distinctly smug way.

“Says the one who didn’t let them leave the grounds without a chaperone until they were fourteen!”

“That was _justified_. Humans are _awful_.”

“Do we have to do this now?” Frisk asks, waving their hand a little to get the attention of the two bickering idiots hanging all over each other. “Only, the morning’s not getting any earlier, and I’d like to get there today.”

“Oh, right, sorry!” Asriel is immediately shamed into sitting properly but Chara’s nowhere near as susceptible to the shackles of propriety Frisk occasionally dangles in front of them hopefully. They stretch their arms out over the table, frowning and scrunching up their nose.

“What are you going to do when you find the tower?”

“Find the beast, make friends, maybe bring them back for a spell…why?”

Even Asriel’s frowning now and there’s just the slightest crunch of dread in Frisk’s stomach before they can shoo it away. Even if they’ve done something wrong, Asriel and Chara (or just Asriel, but still) will communicate it clearly and help them get it right. They’re not a disappointment; they’re not a failure. They still swallow a little heavily while waiting for the inevitable criticism, though.

“Are you taking weapons?” Chara asks dryly.

“No.”

“What if the beast really is a beast? What if you get in trouble?”

It’s something that’s occurred to them, of course, for all that this is an utterly last-minute whim of a plan. “I’ll run.”

They’re fairly confident in their legs nowadays: they started jogging around the grounds to show Chara that jogging wasn’t ‘the epitome of masochism and potentially a fate worse than death’. Chara had been right, as it turned out, but Frisk wasn’t about to let them know that, so they kept at it and now they’re a passable long-distance runner. Asriel’s very proud of them for it and lets them know it too, so they can weather a bit of smugness from Chara.

Asriel could stand to show a little more of that pride now, but Frisk isn’t about to tell him that as he continues to do his not-quite-disappointed frown. “What if the beast is faster than you?”

“I’ll run very fast.”

“Just take a fucking weapon,” Chara sighs, swirling the dregs of tea around in their cup. “We have knives, we have swords, we have ornamental spears: take your pick. And, on the off chance that you’re feeling even halfway reasonable, take a day or two to train before running off to potentially battle a monster.”

“I am probably not going to be doing that,” Frisk says, leaning against the frame of the kitchen door. The conversation is taking a lot longer than they thought it would and they begin to think that just leaving a note would have been easier.

Chara and Asriel share an exasperated look and a few inventively expressive eye movements and nods that probably mean something to the two of them but are utterly indecipherable to anyone else. Then they slide their chairs back with a screech against the tiles, lifting their hands up to do a quick game of rock-paper-scissors. Chara wins with far more triumph than is probably necessary and, doing one of his heartbreakingly pitiful sighs, Asriel comes over to Frisk and starts trying to unclasp his locket (in the end, Chara has to come and do it for him because fingers and claws the size of his just aren’t compatible with tiny silver clasps).

It feels oddly light in Frisk’s hands. Heart-shaped and dainty, perhaps, but something with that much emotional weight just feels like it should be heavier.

“You want me to take this?”

Asriel scratches the back of his head, looking at the wall. “Mum charmed them before she and Dad gave them to us: we’ve never really had to use them, but if they ever get separated, we can sort of…send messages through them. I say sort of because it’s not really ‘messages’, per se, it’s more like…”

“You spit in it and hold it to your pulse and the other one will start shrieking, apparently,” Chara finishes, leaning against the wall and picking at the paint idly. “And, because magic is nothing if not convenient, the holder of the other one will know basically where you are.”

“I…spit in it?” Frisk repeats dully, rubbing their thumb across the silver surface. It’s barely even tarnished.

“Well. Any bodily fluid works, apparently. Maybe even bodily solid, but spitting is easier than cutting off your hair or nails or whatever. Or using blood, though that works too.”

“Mum explicitly said spitting,” Asriel says hurriedly.

“Yeah, she would have, wouldn’t she,” Chara rolls their eyes. “Anyway, that’s how it works. If your beast turns out to be faster than you, just spit. We’ll come get you.” They seem to be enjoying the situation more than Asriel, who just looks embarrassed.

Frisk looks down at the locket in their hand again, shrugs, and fixes it round their neck. “That’s really convenient. Thanks!”

Asriel’s embarrassment melts into a smile and he hugs them. “Have fun, okay? And come back soon.”

Saluting, Frisk turns to get their hair ruffled by Chara.

“Don’t go making this adventuring thing a habit. We’ve got the autumn crop to take in: we don’t need you going off saving all the monsters in the neighbourhood.”

Frisk grins and salutes again, waving a last time before jogging up the stairs to the main entrance.

 

They know what Chara was really saying, of course. Chara’s been the one teaching them history (for a given value of ‘teaching’) and whatever ‘literary appreciation’ is supposed to be: they know it hasn’t gone unnoticed which stories they like best. Dashing or not-so-dashing knights who go off and defeat beasts, save villages and princesses and princes: who free everyone. Martyrs who sacrifice themselves for their cause: who defy tyrants to the very last in a desperate attempt to bring freedom to their people. Heroes. Saviours. It’s a little embarrassing, if Frisk is honest.

They don’t really think they have any grand delusions about themself. They know they’re nothing particularly special, and they’re definitely not any knight in shining armour. They don’t even want to be: they can do just fine without the sword fighting and horse-riding, thank you very much. They’ve seen what swords (and horses) can do. They want none of that. But even stripping those elements away, there’s just something they’re attracted to: something that drags them in and enchants them so much that they can’t stop fantasising. While they’re going over arithmetic problems, they’re seeking out cursed princesses. While they’re airing out a new room in the old wing, they’re sneaking into enemy camps to untie captured princes. While they’re digging up potatoes, they’re rescuing and befriending imprisoned political figureheads of indeterminate gender. It’s all very formulaic, but it’s satisfying anyway.

Actually, it’s probably because it’s formulaic that it’s satisfying, they think. Formulas are easy, right? It makes sense that they’d be the best, once you’ve worked out exactly what you want from them. Just to test out this new theory (for absolutely no other reason, none at all), Frisk indulges in a new fantasy rescue as they walk, humming happily and tunelessly.

The term ‘saviour complex’ isn’t one they like to think about a whole lot, not since Chara scribbled it down and told them to go look it up. Which, in hindsight, was a pretty catty move, but that’s neither here nor there. That the term keeps coming back to them is also neither here nor there.

They just keep walking.

By the time the thick hug of trees around them begins to thin out, their legs are aching, reminding them pointedly that the last break they took was for lunch and that it was hours ago. Nothing good ever comes of ignoring your body’s warnings, so they decide to take a breather once they reach the approaching clearing.

As luck would have it, the clearing happens to contain the tower they’ve been looking for. Random woodsmen’s directions are just getting more and more accurate these days. They take a break anyway, sitting against a thick trunk and chewing on a slice of bread, wondering how on earth they managed to not notice such a monstrous attempt at architecture while they were walking. It doesn’t so much stand tall as haphazardly go in whichever way its stones choose to face at any given point, apparently only still holding together through magic because Frisk can’t explain how a tower that essentially curls back in on itself at least twice could stand otherwise. It reminds them of a meringue tower Asriel once tried to make: structurally doomed and vaguely pathetic.

That being said, there’s no sign of any beast. The clearing’s big enough – it could probably fit about three houses in it, to take a random unit of measurement – but there are no scorch marks or heaps of fur shedding or any of the potential tell-tale signs. There’s just a very tall tower covered in moss and dying vines.

But there’s a door in it. Frisk decides to take that as a good sign.

When their legs feel less about to fall off – and with the beast still not making an appearance – they get up and brush themself off of soil, then stride towards the door with as much confidence as they can muster. Confidence is usually the key, they’ve found with what encounters they’ve had with travellers in the woods over the years. Just smile like you know what you’re doing. And maybe clutch onto the locket because it reminds you of your family, but keep smiling anyway.

The door’s a strange one. There are three different latches on it, all quite high up, and they’re arranged in such a way that you have to hold them all open at the same time to actually open the door. Once that’s done, the door opens docilely. Another good sign, Frisk decides.

The tower might well be unnecessarily tall, but it’s only wide enough inside to house a staircase. The stairs are in fairly good shape, surprisingly: no shine on the wood to hint at frequent use, and not a single crack or even many creaks as Frisk walks up, holding onto the dusty handholds that puncture the stone walls at regular intervals.

They were right about the magic, too, because the staircase winds up in a sensible spiral, with no sign of the bizarre shape the tower takes on outside.

And so, heart in their mouth just a little bit, they reach a door at the top. They’re not quite sure what the procedure is at this point, so they knock on the pristine wood and twiddle their thumbs around the locket.

“Y-yeah?” comes a voice from inside the room.

“Hello?” they call out. It occurs to them that they probably should have prepared a speech, and they’ve never been the best at improvising, but it’s too late for that now. “I’m…I’m an adventurer. I’m here to, um, help you? I suppose? And possibly make friends.”

“Yo, really?!” the voice sounds ecstatic. “Dude, that’s so cool! Sure, come in!”

That sounds promising, so Frisk opens the door and sticks their head in a little sheepishly before following it with the rest of their body.

The tower room is surprisingly big. There are multiple levels to it, with the centre being the lowest. There’s a bed in one corner, a water pump with a metal tub under it, a low bookcase filled with very large books, and everywhere there are open-topped storage boxes of everything from clothes to crockery. In the middle of it all, there’s a beaming monster.

They’re very yellow and somewhat scaly, but the sweetly crooked smile is really what stands out, and Frisk can’t help but smile back, hopping down the levels from the door to meet the monster. They don’t seem to have any arms under their clothes, but other than that they’re to all extents and purposes a dragon: tails and spines and sculpted head and towering size and all.

This is the best thing that’s happened all month.

When Frisk is at the lowest level, the top of their head barely hitting where the dragon’s chest would be, they wave. “I’m Frisk.”

“Sweet!” the dragon squeezes their eyes together happily and it’s so endearing that Frisk wants to stroke them. “I don’t really have a name like humans do, but you can call me MK!”

“MK?”

“Monster Kid, of course!” they giggle. “Yo, this is so cool! I’ve never had a visitor before! Ooh, wait: you should sit! This place is pretty remote, yeah? You must have walked a lot.”

They swing their tail, gesturing towards a giant armchair next to a fireplace on the top level of the room and Frisk gladly goes to drop their pack and sink into it, sighing happily. MK sits down on the rug in front of them, still grinning infectiously.

“I can try and make tea too, if you’d like!”

“No, it’s alright, thanks,” Frisk says, hopefully not too hastily. They’re not quite sure how tea-making happens without arms, and they’re not so thirsty that they want to know yet.

MK begins swaying their head back and forth to some rhythm. It’s comforting to watch. “So why’d you come here, anyway? Not to say I don’t want you here, ‘course! I’m totally happy you’re here!”

Frisk extricates themself from the armchair a little so that they can actually sit up properly. “I heard there was a ‘fearsome beast’ around here. I wanted to come see if you were as fearsome as they said, and if you wanted to be friends.”

MK’s eyes light up like only dragon eyes probably can: shining and sparkling with hidden fire. “Do I ever! I’ve never even had a proper friend before, gosh!”

Frisk smiles, knowing that feeling well. “Would you like to come back to my place, sometime? It’s about a day’s walk away from here, but if I can do it, I’m pretty sure a dragon would be able to.”

Laughing (and it sounds so good, so musical and joyful), MK says, “Yo, I’m not a dragon! Well, I mean like, not _really_. I’m a wyvern! My wings still haven’t come in yet, but they’ll get there!” They shuffle their torso as if to demonstrate.

“Sweet. Come to think of it, how do you leave the tower?” Frisk asks, leaning their chin on a fist. “The door must be difficult without fingers, and that drop seems a little fatal.”

“Oh, um. I haven’t actually left the tower before, haha.”

“What?”

With a rushed little laugh, MK leans their head back and seems to take great interest in the unlit fireplace. “Haha. Well, like, it’s kind of embarrassing, but I was brought here as a kid. Until my wings come in, I can’t really leave, y’know? Oh, I mean, with someone else I could! But not on my own.”

Frisk frowns, but something in their chest is stirring. “Would you like to leave?”

MK looks at them and somehow, despite being a teenage wyvern almost twice their size, manages to look up at them hopefully, their eyes huge and irresistibly innocent. “I think…yeah, I’d like that.”

The feeling in Frisk’s chest bursts and flows through their muscles, pushing them to take MK’s face in their hands and smile. “Then let’s go and show you the world.”

The excitement on MK’s face is everything they could have dreamed of, and they could scream when it’s suddenly clouded by doubt. “I…I mean, dude, I’d love to, I really would! But I don’t think my, um, my keeper would like that.”

“Your what.”

Perfectly on cue, Frisk hears a giant flap of wings from outside the tower, shaking it to its very foundations. Worry shocks through MK’s expression and Frisk immediately resolves to clear away whatever caused it – no matter what it is – to the absolute best of their abilities.

“Yo…that’s them…” MK gets to their feet unsteadily, moving between Frisk and the window.

“Who are they?”

“They’re the, um, the dragon – like, a full one this time – that put me in here.”

Frisk frowns. “They _put_ you in here?”

“Haha, yeah…um. They’ve been giving me food and stuff, but they…they don’t really let me leave.”

“So they’re your captor?” Frisk is already rolling up their sleeves.

“Uh, I guess…? Like, I don’t want to _accuse_ them or anything, but…I guess. Yeah. And I, um…when I said I could leave when my wings come in, that’s sort of…like, a little bit of an assumption, probably. Maybe. Just a bit.”

“Alright.” Frisk strides past MK to get to the window, ready to put their hands on their hips and have some very pointed words with this dragon, but they’re stopped by MK’s tail wrapping around their legs. They turn to see fear raw (and all the more disarming for it) on MK’s face.

“Yo, you can’t! They don’t like humans! They…they really hurt the last ones who came here. I don’t want to see you hurt like that!”

Frisk takes a moment to assess the situation, and then they smile with as much confidence as they can scrounge up – anything to make MK feel even the slightest bit better. They hear the dragon snuffling and growling at the window at the sight of them, but they don’t give into curiosity to look around.

Rushing to safety behind the armchair to grab their pack, they grin and say, “Then let’s run.”

 

Somehow, they get out of the door without getting too scorched by the dragon’s rage. It’s a massive beast: all teeth and mud-brown scales that gleam beetle-carapace-green in the light, huffing smoke and fire into the room. Frisk worries for a second that MK’s things are going to be burnt, but they don’t seem even half as concerned as Frisk is, so perhaps it’s okay. Seeing the tentative excitement on their face as the two of them hurtle down the stairs, Frisk knows it’s okay. They wish vaguely that MK had hands so they could hold them.

They know that the dragon is going to be waiting for them outside, and they spare a few moments to admit that maybe Chara and Asriel had been right, maybe a weapon wouldn’t go amiss, but it’s too late to worry about that, so they make a concerted effort not to. Instead, they stop to catch their breath at the door for a heartbeat or two, grin back at MK (flushed, but grinning too, and that’s all that Frisk can see), and hold the three latches open.

“Stay behind me, okay? I’m going to open the door and run back up the stairs in case they’re waiting to attack,” they say, the adrenaline heady and thick in their mind.

For a brief second, they regret that they don’t have shining armour or a blessed sword or something flashy, but then they thrust the door open and run backwards, just missing the searing heat of the dragon’s flames. It sends them into a sweat, but they don’t have time to worry about that: they know that dragons need a few seconds to recover themselves after flaming (‘nature’s attempt at giving us lesser beings a fighting chance’, Chara had called it) and they sprint through the charred entrance, catching the dragon by surprise.

It’s a mad dash through the clearing, trying to pull the dragon’s attention away from the entrance: even though Frisk knows that they probably won’t hurt MK, it’s still something they need to do. That’s just how these things are done, right? They wave their hands, shouting, and the beast turns to them, a deep rumble of fire in its throat. Frisk just has the time to sprint to the side before the grass where they were a second before is a charred streak of black and cinders.

“Frisk!” MK calls, terrified, and _wow_ , what they wouldn’t give to hear that again. They hop to their feet and grin as MK catches up with them at the treeline. The dragon is slow, lumbering towards them in a clearing too small to let it move, and they easily slip through the trees before its scream can pierce them.

After that, they run.

MK’s surprisingly good at it, as long as they don’t stop: momentum and careful swings of their tail keep them from falling over. As for Frisk, they’re in their element. The adrenaline and ecstasy course through them as they push themself into a familiar rhythm, one they know they can keep up, dashing between trees and leaping showily over bushes. Both of them are laughing, more from their own audacity than any amusement, probably. It doesn’t really matter. MK is entrancing as they laugh – their fangs spread wide, the dappled light making their scales shine amber – so it doesn’t really matter.

They’ve run for about ten minutes when they hear the flap of wings above them. As luck would have it (and Frisk is usually so lucky: they’re a little bit insulted that this would happen to them), they’ve just reached the crest of a hill where the trees are sparse, putting them right in the open. That’s probably why the dragon waited here, actually. Frisk should have paid attention to that. As it is, they’ve got a worried MK and a very angry dragon in territory they can’t defend.

Well. Alright then.

They wave their hand, telling MK to follow them (not that the wyvern seems the type to panic and run, but it’s the look of the thing) as they skirt along the inside of the treeline, half-scrambling, half-falling down the hill in the hopes of getting to the bottom and across the waiting stream before the dragon knows what to do.

It’s a pretty pathetic plan, they’ll admit, especially when the dragon rears up and scorches the trees they’re running through.

The two of them tear out into the open to avoid the fire, just in time to meet the dragon as it lands. At this point, Frisk is _really_ wishing they’d brought one of the weapons Chara had offered, if only to wave it around a bit. They don’t want to fight, but having a sword in your hand does wonders for your confidence. Instead, they have to make do with reassuring (and hopefully dashing) smiles and more last-minute manoeuvres.

They gesture for MK to go back up the hill to circle round the other way (orders that the wyvern follows with gratifying obedience) and Frisk keeps running as erratically as they can. The dragon’s big and this clearing is still relatively small: that’s their main advantage and damn it, they’re going to use it.

They manage to avoid the first three bursts of fire by some impressive (if they do say so themself) running and sliding techniques. The fourth catches them by surprise, though, and they only miss getting burned by a reckless lunge to the side that leaves them utterly winded. By this point, they’re soaked in sweat and they’re pretty sure they’ve got burns on their legs in at least three places, going by the unpleasantly tense pain that they don’t really want to look at.

And then the dragon decides to stop playing around. Before Frisk can get back to their feet, the dragon swoops forward and rakes their claws down Frisk’s side.

They scream, of course. The cuts are thankfully shallow, but there are three of them and a fourth scrape that would be nasty enough by itself, and they can’t seem to ignore them enough to get back to their feet.

As they curl up, breathing shallowly and biting their lip until it bleeds so they don’t scream again, the dragon rears up once more. Frisk’s almost disappointed in themself. They should be up and running. They should be making sure MK is alright. They should have prepared for this.

Instead, they can’t even bring themself to move, not when every twinge of muscle is like fire across their torso. The dragon towers over them threateningly and they realise they’ve run out of options.

And then there’s bright yellow in front of them, blocking out the brown. Frisk’s eyes are blurred with tears, but from the sound alone they can tell that MK is breathing their own fire at the dragon: it’s barely enough to make the dragon move backwards, but it’s a distraction. That’s enough. So, trying to think rationally through the haze of ‘ _don’t move_ ’ and ‘ _don’t breathe_ ’, Frisk manages to take the locket (thankfully still around their neck) in their hand and flip open the clasp. Inside, there’s a single golden petal. They think they’d laugh, in a situation where laughing wouldn’t mean blacking out from pain.

Their mouth is too dry and they don’t relish the movement that spitting would need, so, while MK is still putting up an admirable defence of immature fire and frantic shouting, they press the locket to their side. They scream again, the sound ripping through their clenched teeth at the burn of cold metal on their wounds.

It takes them a few precious seconds to remember to hold it to their wrist afterwards, pressing it against their pulse until they can almost feel the blood cutting off, and then they let the locket drop. Everything hurts. They’re trying their best to keep pressure on their cuts, but it’s not helping much, not with their shivering arms. They do everything they can to keep their eyes open, watching the blurs of yellow and brown against the sunset-stained sky, but it feels a little futile. Now they really do feel disappointed in themself: aren’t heroes supposed to be able to shrug off wounds like this? Aren’t knights supposed to protect, not get protected? It seems an awful train of thought to go out on, but they can’t keep the disappointment from crushing them, making it even harder to breathe through the thick lump in their throat.

Then they hear a roar.

It’s not the dragon: it’s too full and not bestial enough for that. It’s not MK: they doubt they could ever roar like that, with rage breaking off in waves like thunder crashing through the sky. And then there are gentle hands pressing over their own limp ones at their side, wrapping fabric around them. They look up into red eyes.

“…Chara…?” they manage to whisper.

“I’m going to kill it.” Chara’s voice is loathing, unparalleled and unstoppable hatred, but it shakes with something far more fragile. “I’m going to _kill_ it.”

But, as Frisk manages to tear their eyes away and back to the dragon, they realise distantly that Asriel already has that front covered. MK’s rushed back to Frisk’s side – they lift a weak hand to rub against the hard scales of their cheek – and Asriel’s taken over the fight with chilling finality.

He’s wearing robes Frisk has never seen before, his eyes are completely dark, his horns so much longer than usual, and his whole being fizzles with enraged energy as he walks steadily to meet the retreating dragon.

Frisk blacks out before they can see any more.

 

It turns out that Asriel remembers even less of it than Frisk does. When they wake up, Chara’s the one who explains that that was Asriel’s witch form (which is honestly so cool and if Frisk wasn’t bedridden upon pain of death by Chara’s wrath, they’d have gone to see him the second they were told). Chara also forbids them any visitors but themself until they’re better (pointing out quite rightly that Frisk would just get too excited and end up moving and opening their wounds again). Then, after shoving soup down Frisk’s throat and briskly punching the pillows a bit, they leave and warn Frisk to get more sleep.

It’s not an order Frisk has any problems with.

They’re up and about after a few days: still wrapped tightly in bandages and using a cane so they don’t move their right side too much, but moving. One goal in mind, they hobble straight for the kitchen to find Asriel, Chara following just far enough behind to pretend they aren’t ready to rush in if Frisk falters.

MK’s in the kitchen too, chatting a mile a minute as Asriel kneads dough, and seeing them relieves tension that Frisk didn’t even know they’d been carrying. MK’s also the first one to notice them in the doorway, and they leap to their feet excitedly, running to meet Frisk, apparently oblivious to how Chara bristles at the sudden approach.

“Yo, you’re up! You okay?”

Not feeling particularly verbal today, Frisk just smiles and nods, their smile growing almost painfully wide when MK leans down to nuzzle their cheek.

Chara pushes them (gently) to a seat. “Yeah, okay, physical affection is wonderful, just sit down, you great lump.”

Wiping his hands down on his apron (embroidered by Chara, with ‘Snazzriel’ in big letters surrounded by flowers), Asriel moves over and very obviously has to stop himself from hugging them. But he’s smiling, so that’s okay, at least. Frisk accepts the cup of lukewarm tea pushed their way across the table by Chara.

They take a sip to help their dry throat, and say, “Thank you.”

Asriel immediately flaps his hands in an embarrassed way. “No, no, really: I don’t even remember anything. I just saw the blood and got a little…”

“He totally lost it,” Chara says helpfully.

“Well. That. Like you can talk, Chara: you were at least as angry as me.”

“And yet only one of us turned into our over-powered witch alter-ego, how about that.”

Asriel glares at them before turning a much softer expression to Frisk. “ _Anyway_ , I’m just glad you’re doing well now. How are the burns?”

Frisk twists their leg, not that they can see anything with their trousers in the way. They move it back and forth in demonstration and shrug lightly, and Asriel smiles in relief, moving to stand by Chara’s chair.

There’s a very loud snuffling sound and Frisk turns to see MK holding back tears. “I’m…geez, I’m really sorry,” they say miserably, all their excitement from before cooled. “You’re really hurt, aren’t you?”

They shake their head not-too-vigorously. In a weak voice, they say, “I’ve had wor-”

“You have _not_ ,” Chara cuts them off, totally ruining their attempt to look cool and unconcerned. It’s not like they didn’t expect it.

Frisk allows it with a nod. “Okay, so I haven’t had worse, but I’m moving, right? I’ll be fine.”

“Really?” MK’s doing that thing with their eyes again, making them huge and shiny with worry and Frisk can’t help themself: they reach out a hand to rub the scales of MK’s cheek, smiling in what they hope is a reassuring way.

They still don’t know MK well enough to get by with only facial expressions and small sounds, so they force words out again. “What about you? What are you going to do now?”

Looking oddly quietened, MK drops their gaze. “Well, I mean…it’s not like I really have a place to go back to, and we don’t have families like humans do, so…”

Asriel finishes for them. “I, uh, I offered for them to stay here, at least for a while. That’s okay, right?”

More than okay, a hundred times more than okay, but Frisk looks over at Chara first, tilting their head questioningly.

Chara shrugs, keeping their eyes pointedly in their cup, but they don’t look as uncomfortable as they might. “They’re not human, are they? It’s fine.”

A grin bubbles its way to the surface as Frisk turns back to MK, mirroring their happiness.

Chara pokes the side of their head a little sharply. “Don’t think you’re getting out of this without a long discussion about reckless self-endangerment, though. And once you’re healed, we’re training you to defend yourself. And you’re not allowed to go adventuring by yourself for at least half a year, you hormone-addled idiot.”

Guilelessly, Frisk smiles back at them. They figure the adventure was worth it.


End file.
